Second Chances
by EsmeAmelia
Summary: Story that's been in progress for over ten years, this is my own sequel to the film. As Esmeralda and Phoebus plan for their wedding, an unexpected guest shows up, and she attracts the attention of both Quasimodo and the new minister.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Okay, this is a story I started a LONG time ago, in early 2001, back when HoND was my Number 1 obsession, and nowadays I'm no longer proud of the first few chapters, but the story was well-received when it was first posted on the (now closed) HoND Fan Fic Store and later on my (down for now) HoND website. I've been tempted more than once to just let the story go, but given that I've been working on it on and off for ten years now it only seems right to finish it. I haven't edited the early chapters, much as I may like to, because I work better editing something when I actually have something finished first. Maybe posting it here will help motivate me to actually finish the damn thing. Anyway, I don't own HoND – Disney and Victor Hugo do. And in this fic, that god-awful sequel never happened (I don't accept the sequel as canon anyway). And as I said, most of this fic was written a LONG time ago, so it's not up to my usual standard. I'll probably post one chapter every day or two until I've posted all the work I've done, then . . . I have no idea how frequent updates will be.

"Second Chances"

by EsmeAmelia

Chapter 1

The cold wind whipped in the gypsy woman's hair as she danced. Her billowing skirt whirled around her legs, occasionally revealing two booted feet making patterns in the snow. The flutes and drums played by her comrades enhanced the routine, but she was the prime focus. Her dance seemed to be giving energy to the musicians.

The bonfire behind her drew the attention of the passer-by, offering them warmth from the dusky December air and beckoning them to drop money in the gypsy woman's hat, which was carefully guarded by her little white goat. The music of her tambourine seemed to be shouting to the crowd _Come! Celebrate with us!_ in the language that only tambourines speak.

A good number of people stopped in their tracks to watch the woman dance. None of them could tell what event the gypsies were celebrating, but the dancer's energy told them it must be something very special. They all cheered heartily when she finished her dance, almost as if they could sense the joy behind her smile. She bowed deeply, almost as if she could sense their admiration for her. After a lingering moment, she wrapped a cloth around herself, and disappeared.

The spectators had all seen her do the trick before, so none of them were too surprised, although no one was sure how she did it. Still, they had all seen it enough times so that they didn't talk about it as they went their separate ways. Therefore we will not follow the group of townsfolk, because there is nothing more to say about then that would be relevant to the story.

Of course, we won't follow the gypsy dancer right away either, for you see, the method of that trick is a gypsy secret: we can't reveal it to you! We will simply pick up the story a little later that evening, when the gypsies were gathered around a bonfire listening as their king addressed them.

"Gather 'round everyone!" Clopin began, even though everyone was already gathered around, "We are here to pay tribute to one of our bravest comrades."

He extended his hand to the woman who had been dancing earlier. She giggled slightly, but took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the center of attention.

"As many of you know," Clopin continued, "our esteemed sister La Esmeralda has finished her Biblical studies, and she is going to be baptized into God's kingdom tomorrow."

The gypsies all cheered, though some were still wondering about the wisdom of her decision.

"_Ma cherie_, Esmeralda," Clopin said, kissing the woman's hand, "we are all offer you our sincerest congratulations."

"And I offer you my sincerest gratitude," said Esmeralda, her green eyes shining in the firelight. She turned to address the crowd. "My friends," she began, "I want to thank each and every one of you for your unyielding support. I realize that some of you think I've made a foolish decision and might even be worried that I'll forget who I really am, but you have all stood by me, both during my religious studies and… tougher times. God bless you all!"

A few giggles were heard as the gypsies remembered the time she was almost burned at the stake for witchcraft.

Esmeralda waited for the laugher to die down, then she said, "I would like to perform my first act as a Christian a little early. Djali?"

Her little goat trotted up to her with hat, chock-full of money, clenched in his teeth. Esmeralda took the hat and patted the animal on the head, and then she handed the hat with excitement to Clopin. "Here," she said, "it's all the money I've earned dancing in the last week. I know you will distribute it to those who need it most."

Clopin's jaw dropped for a few seconds. A few gypsies shifted around uneasily, knowing that giving up your entire week's earnings was a very serious matter. "Are you sure?" Clopin managed to say.

"Yes," Esmeralda said firmly, "God has given a second chance to live, and I want to make as much use of it as I can. Distribute the money well."

For a moment the gypsy king was speechless. The other gypsies held their breath, waiting to hear if he would accept her gift or not.

"Three cheers for out dear sister Esmeralda!" Clopin shouted, holding up the hat with teary eyes.

. . . .

The gypsies celebrated long into the night. There was plenty of music, feasting, and dance, but again, nothing that would relevant to the story. We will pick up the story after the party, when Esmeralda was stopped in the street by an old friend.

"Esmeralda! Wait up!"

Esmeralda turned to find a gypsy woman of about twenty with a long braid of lack hair down to her waist and sharp brown eyes running up to her.

"Melenie!" Esmeralda exclaimed, "What are you doing here? I thought your caravan was traveling to Spain."

"Well yes, we were," said Melenie, "but the snow storm delayed us, and when I heard you were getting baptized I knew I had to be here for that. Didn't you see me in the crowd?"

"No, but then I wasn't looking."

"Well anyway, congratulations!" continued Melenie, "You can bet I'll be at the church tomorrow. I wouldn't miss it for the world!"

"Well I'm sure no one will offer you the world," Esmeralda giggled.

The two friends continued chatting as they made their way down the moonlit street. It started out as an easygoing walk, but after a while Esmeralda suddenly stopped in her tracks. Her keen sense of hearing had detected a presence.

"What is it?" asked Meleine.

Esmeralda inhaled deeply. "Melenie," she whispered, "someone's watching us!"

Melenie stood very still, trying to make out any sounds of danger. In a few she could hear the faint sound of footsteps in the distance. She sniffed the frosty air. Horses!

"Listen!" Esmeralda continued, "Amor clanking!"

Melenie listened again. Sure enough, she could make out the distant clink-clink of someone's amor rattling. It didn't sound like just one person, either. She sniffed again. The sent of horses was getting closer!

"Soldiers!" Esmeralda hissed

"What should we do?" Melenie whispered frantically.

Before Esmeralda could answer, a gruff voice shouted, "Get her! She's the one!"

The women turned to find three soldiers on horseback charging toward them.

"RUN!" shouted Esmeralda.

The two gypsies sprinted off at top speed with the soldiers in close pursuit. The horse's steamy breath blowing on their shoulders, they ducked into an alley in hopes of eluding their pursuers, but to no avail. Soon they found themselves facing the soldiers with their backs against a wall.  
>One of the guards dismounted his horse to inspect the women. "Which one, your Honor?" he asked<p>

A tall figure on horseback rode up to the gypsies. Esmeralda's eyes grew wide when she recognized the face of the rider wearing the Minister of Justice's uniform. His narrow blue eyes, dark hair with gray streaks, and bushy eyebrows spelled out one individual.

Jehan Frollo.

The minister eyed the women carefully, then stated to the guards "The one on the left."  
>Immediately his comrades leapt off their horses and drew their swords. Within a second, Esmeralda found her neck surrounded by swordpoints. "You're under arrest, gypsy," a tall soldier said, grabbing her wrist.<p>

Like a pouncing cat, Esmeralda bit the man's hand as hard as she could. He screamed in pain and momentarily let go of her hand, which she used to punch him in the cheekbone.

"Get her!" yelled the soldier, rubbing hid cheek. The other two soldiers each grabbed hold of one of her arms and forced her to her knees. They might have been able to hold her down long enough for the minister to take control -if Melenie hadn't kicked one of them smack in the face and Djali hadn't butted the other one the rear. Esmeralda took the bait and sprinted away past Jehan's horse.

But the judge was ready for her. He reached down and grabbed hold of one her wrists as she darted past him. The guard with injured cheek sneaked up behind her and tackled her to the snowy ground.

"Take her and her little friend away," Jehan ordered.

The guards would have succeeded if only they hadn't waited a spilt second to react. In that little second, Esmeralda's hand slipped into her pocket and came out clenched in a fist.  
>The soldier with sore cheek grabbed the wrist of her clenched hand and yanked her to her. "You're coming with us, gypsy!" he snarled.<p>

The gypsy woman opened her fist, letting a power-like substance drop to the ground.

KABOOM! A thick cloud of purple smoke rose from the ground, blinding the minister and the soldiers. They had to let go of whatever they were holding on to in order to protect their eyes from the stinging cloud.

When the smoke finally cleared the two gypsy women and their goat were gone. Vanished into thin air. Like they'd never a long moment of stunned silence the soldier with bruised cheek finally got the nerve to address the judge.

"Sir," he asked, "shall we continue the search?"

Jehan took a few moments to answer as he stared at the rays of dawn peeking over the rooftops."Not yet," he finally said.

"But sir, they might have left tracks," the soldier persisted, "if we wait…"

"A Sunday morning is dawning!" the minister said firmly.

None of the guards could argue with that. The new magistrate was firm believer in no persecution on the Lord's day. Unable to pursue the gypsies, the three guards all went their separate ways. However, Jehan lingered in the alley for quite some time. He knew that one day he would see that gypsy again.

And he would prove her guilty.

. . . .

"I think they're gone," Melenie said as she and Esmeralda climbed out of the crate where they'd been hiding.

"Whoa boy," said Esmeralda, "Just what I need on the day I'm supposed to become a Christian."

Melenie, tried to laugh at her remark, but they both knew this was no joke. "Well," she said softly, "that explains why you want to be baptized."

"Melenie, I've been to busy with my studies to pay any attention to who the Minister of Justice is," Esmeralda said firmly, "Besides, you know that wouldn't do any good in this case."

Melenie nodded slowly. They both knew the minister hadn't just been after her because of her heritage. She opened her mouth to offer a word of comfort when the ethereal tone of church bells came soaring over the city, calling the faithful to the Holy Day's prayer.

"Oh my gosh!" Esmeralda exclaimed, "It's almost time!"

Melenie reached over and hugged her friend. "Good luck," she whispered, deciding it was best not to bring up the incident.

"Thank you," Esmeralda whispered back, lightly touching Melenie's cheek. Then she set off for Notre Dame at the highest speed her legs were capable of reaching. In three seconds she was out of sight.

Melenie stared after her for a long time. She couldn't really understand why her friend was doing this, but she would never state her concern, not to her, anyway. Melenie could never be anything but supportive to someone who was almost a sister to her. The events that occurred many months ago ran through her head: the riot Esmeralda caused at the Feast of Fools, the burning of Paris, Esmeralda's near-execution, the raid of Notre Dame… yes, with all Esmeralda had been through she might very well have a good reason to be baptized. Melenie nodded slightly. Yes, she would support her friend in any way she could, even if she didn't agree with her.

"Good luck," she whispered again.

Meanwhile, Esmeralda stood on the steps of Notre Dame with her eyes closed, listening intensely to the bells in hopes of distracting herself from the incident the night before. She breathed deeply, concentrating on the heavenly sound above her, and fiercely trying to brush all thoughts of the soldiers, the new minister, and whatever troubles that might be awaiting her out of her head. She had to think pure thoughts, at least for today.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Again, this chapter was written a LONG time ago. Oh, and let me apologize about how insanely long most of the chapters are - back then I thought chapters should be long for some reason.

"Second Chances"

by EsmeAmelia

Chapter 2

High above, in the uppermost tower of the great Cathedral of Notre Dame, the bell ringer carried out his daily duties of sounding out the bells that called the city to Morning Mass. Today he rang the bells with more energy than usual, for today was an extra special occasion. The tone of the bells often reflected his moods, as the Parisan citizens had learned since the raid of Notre Dame. Down in the street they were saying to each other "Quasimodo must be excited today," and "I think something must be happening," and "Quasimodo is anticipating something; you can hear it in the bells."

They were right. Quasimodo was indeed anticipating something. He rang the bells for a noticeably long time, then he shinnied down the bell rope and landed squarely on the platform which led to the balcony. He hobbled over to the balcony and gazed over the rail down at the activity on the street.

A few early risers were already heading for worship. A bundled-up old couple was walking hand-in-hand toward the church, warmed by each other's touch. Three children were skipping merrily down the street tossing snowballs at each other and at occasionally at their watchful parents, who lagged a good way behind them. A man darted across the square to join a group of friends. And on the steps of Notre Dame stood the woman around whom this morning's worship would revolve.

Quasimodo waved down to her, wondering why she was standing there looking so melencholy on such an important day.

It took Esmeralda a few moments to wave back at him, but the sight of him perked up her spirits. Maybe she had enough time for a short visit with him; it might help take last night off her mind. She hurried into the cathedral and up the many steps to the tower.

Meanwhile Quasimodo was walking across the balcony scanning the rail for any tiny creatures who were cold and hungry. Birds. During the winter it was his ritual to search every morning for birds, and if he found any, to give them some food to help them through the cold season. He had been free of the tower for many months now, but he had never forgotten about those who had once been his only living friends.

Today a solitary young pigeon stood on the rail scraping his tiny feet in the snow. The instant Quasimodo saw the little pigeon, he rushed into the tower and returned with a croissant in hand, which he crumbled up into tiny pieces and sprinkled on the rail. The pigeon chirped excitedly and hopped toward the food. He ate heartily for a long time, then he looked up at Quasimodo and smiled-or at least gave him a happy look, for birds can't actually smile, but they can show their appreciation. And this bird did indeed show his appreciation: he bobbed his head and fluttered his wings as he made a sound of approval, as if he was saying "Thank you."

Quasimodo smiled down at the bird. This particular pigeon had been stopping at the tower for food every morning ever since the weather had gotten cold. He had never been shy around Quasimodo, and always gave him that little dance of grattitude. It almost seemed like the bird had known Quasimodo his whole life. Indeed, it had often passed through Quasimodo's mind that this was the same baby bird he had helped learn to fly on that fateful Festival of Fools day so long ago, or as he often reffered to it now, "the day he was born." After all, this bird was about the right age, he spent a lot of time at the cathedral and he would always flutter his wings for Quasimodo, as if to say "Look how well I can fly now, thanks to you!"Quasimodo knew he would probobly never know if this was the same bird, but he liked thinking about the possibility. It reminded him of how far he had come from those days. Those days when he could only observe life in Paris from above. Those days when the world regarded him as a monster and feared and loathed him. Those days when the only future for him was to spend life in isolation, never to know the simple pleasure of a friend stopping by for a morning of heart-to-heart conversation.

"Quasimodo?"

His thoughts were interrupted by the very pleasure he once thought he'd never know. He hurried downstairs to greet Esmeralda at the doorway.

"Esmeralda!" he exclaimed, "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be getting ready?"

"I have a little time," Esmeralda said quickly, "I wanted to see you. Please, may I come in?"

"Of course," said Quasimodo, and no sooner had he spoken than Esmeralda ran up the stairs to his workroom. Quasimodo followed, a little taken aback by how shaken up she looked. He arrived at the workroom to find Esmeralda seated at his craft table fiddling with one of his figures. "Esmeralda, is something wrong?" he asked, sitting down beside her.

"Isn't it obvious that something's wrong?" said Esmeralda, "It's the new minister. He's..."

"Jehan Frollo?" interrupted Quasimodo, "Yes, I know."

"You know?" asked Esmeralda, "Has he been after you, too?"

Quasimodo sighed. "Not really, but then again I've only seen him a couple of times."

"When?" Esmeralda asked almost franticly, "What did he do?"

Quasimodo sighed again. "Well, the first time I was on my way to the bakery when I noticed the Minister of Justice's carriage pulling into the street. Out of curiosity, I followed the carriage until it stopped in front of the Palace of Justice, and he stepped out."

"Well?"

"He looked at me."

"That's it?"

Quasimodo sighed for the third time. "He gave me a look, like he knew who I was. He looked at me for what seemed like a long time, then he turned to talk to his soldiers, and I hurried to the bakery."

"Are you sure that's all?" said Esmeralda, sounding almost disappointed, "He just looked at you?"

"Esmeralda, it wasn't just a look," said Quasimodo, "It was a look of accusation, the same sort of look Claude Frollo gave me when I sneeked out of the cathedral. The sort of look people give to the guilty."

"The guilty," Esmeralda repeated in her most matter-of-fact voice, "It's coming together. Obviously he thinks you're a guilty one too."

"But if he thought that, why didn't he try to arrest me?"

"How do you know he didn't?" said Esmeralda, "You said you hurried to the bakery. He could have been planning your arrest and you wouldn't even know. What did he do the other time you saw him?"

"The same thing," said Quasimodo, "The other day when I was just strolling by the frozen Seine, he was riding by on his horse, and he gave me that same look. But then he just kept on riding."

Esmeralda raised her eyebrows. "This doesn't make any sense."

"What do you mean?"

"Why isn't he seizing his chances to arrest you?" Esmeralda wondered aloud, "Last night he was after me and Melenie like mad!"

Quasimodo shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know," he said, then thinking it was best to change the subject, he added "Are you hungry? I have some leftover breakfast if you'd like any."

Now it was Esmeralda's turn to sigh. "Maybe I'm a little hungry."

Quasimodo reached into his food basket and pulled out a small hunk of cheese, a bunch of grapes, and a roll. He put the food on a plate and handed the plate to Esmeralda."Here," he said, "eat as much as you want."

Esmeralda tried to eat the meal her friend had so graciously offered her, but thanks to the incident the night before, she didn't have much of an appetite. After a few grapes and tiny nibbles of bread, she found she couldn't eat another mouthful.

"Quasimodo..." she said after a while.

"What?" asked Quasimodo, who had been looking at his figure of Claude Frollo, the man he once called "master."

"Did he..." she pointed at the figure Quasimodo was holding, "Did he ever talk about his brother when he was alive?"

"Only a few times," said Quasimodo.

"What did he say about him?"

Now Quasimodo sighed yet again. "You really have a problem here, don't you?"

"Quasimodo, don't you see?" Esmeralda scolded, "We could be in serious danger here! What did Claude say about his brother?"

"All right," said Quasimodo, "He described Jehan as 'a strange character.' Said he had a tendency to drink too much, as well as a tendency to exaggerate his points. Frollo said you had to take everything his brother told you with a grain of salt, but if he thought he was right about something, watch out. He said Jehan is very devoted to causes. He didn't really sound like someone who would become Minister of Justice. In fact, whenever Claude talked about him, which wasn't often, it seemed to always be that Jehan was in trouble again."

Esmeralda was silent. Thoughts were running through her head.

_He was very devoted to causes._That meant if her speculations were correct, Jehan would stop at nothing to arrest her.

_He had a tendency to drink too much._That meant he could get violent, even deadly, during persuit.

_He had a tendency to exaggerate his points. _That meant he it wouldn't be beyond him to lie for benefit.

Esmeralda drummed her fingers on the table. She knew what Jehan would accuse her and Quasimodo of. Not stealing. Not disturbing the peace. Not causing riots. Not even witchcraft.

Murder.

"Esmeralda!" Quasimodo shouted all of a sudden, "Think of the time! You should be in the sanctuary!"

"What? Oh yes!" Esmeralda exclaimed, suddenly remembering her baptism. She quickly jumped out of her seat and hurried toward the stairs.

"Esmeralda..." Quasimodo called after her.

Esmeralda stopped and looked back at him.

"God bless you," he said.

Esmeralda smiled for the first time that day. "God bless you too." Then she was gone.

. . . . .

Melenie paced around the Gypsy camp, still thinking about Esmeralda, Jehan, and the night before. She'd hoped to be able to distract herself by finding someone to talk to, but the camp was virtually empty. Most of the gypsies were sound asleep in their tents, worn out from the , we should probobly stop the story for a moment to explain something to you. You see, after Claude Frollo found the old Court of Miracles and ordered the arrest of all it's inhabitants, he promtly destroyed the hideout by setting it on fire. This was to insure that the gypsies would never again reek havoc on the city. Never again could a caravan arrive at the city and be hidden away underground, or could a group of vagabonds gather in secret with confirmed isolation.

Anyway, after Claude Frollo died the very next day, the gypsies scattered like the seeds of a dandilion. Without their central gathering place, they were a large community no more. Some had fled Paris forever, while the others now lived in small groups of maybe twenty to thirty members. A gypsy could move to another camp at any time, and any camp would welcome a new member at any time. Clopin still considered himself king of all the gypsies in Paris, so he moved from camp to camp quite frequently. A large celebration like the one held the night before would briefly bring the gypsies together as one again, but once the festivities were over, they would go their seperate ways. The old community was gone forever.

With the new majestrate, there was no more need to hide underground. True, Jehan Frollo despised gypsies, but he did acknowledge their right to exist, thus gypsy arrests were kept to a minimum, but they were still always wary of soldiers.

Now we hope you understand all this, for we are returning to the story now!

Melenie was circling the camp for the forth time when she noticed three gypsy women chatting heartily outside one of the tents. She would have just passed them by-for Rosanna, Mirrette, and Lenorra were known for spreading wild gossip-but the word Esmeralda caught her ear. She couldn't resist stepping closer to them to hear what they were saying about her friend.

"If you ask me, she is nuts," said Mirrette."I know," said Lenorra, "She keeps blabbering on about how God wants her to do this. Ha! Doesn't she realize that part of the beauty of being a Gypsy is your freedom from religion?"

"You know, some say she hallucinated while she was being consumed by flames," Mirrette giggled, "That she saw visions of herself being thrown into a pit of fire and heard a voice saying 'CONVERT OR ELSE!'"

The three of them laughed hysterically. Meanwhile Melenie had peeked around the side of the tent to hear them. She quickly ducked back when she saw Rosanna's dark blue eyes glance in her direction, but it was too late. They had noticed the one spying on them.

"Hey, Melenie!" called Rosanna, "Come over here!"

"Yes, Melenie," said Lenorra, "Tell us why Esmeralda's making such a foolish move."

Melenie hesitantly made her way around the tent to join them, intent on explaining to them that Esmeralda had been through awful circumstances and that converting to Christianity was a ray of hope for her. However, Mirrette started up before she could say a word.

"The thing that confuses me," said Mirrette, "is why Clopin is letting her stay with the tribe."

"Isn't that obvious?" inquired Lenorra, "He's afraid she'll curse him if he doesn't let her stay! The real question is why she wants to throw her heritage away. Did that little time she spent trapped in the cathedral influence her?"

"No, I think the rumors about her hallucinating at the stake are true!" said Mirrette.

"No, you're both on the wrong path here," Rosanna stated matter-of-factly, "Don't you see? It's not the Christain God that's making her do this: it's the _sun_ god!"

"Huh?" said Melenie.

Lenorra ignored her. "You know, you may be right. It _could_ be Phoebus!"

"Who?" Melenie asked blankly.

All three gossipers looked at her with surprise. "Melenie!" Rosanna exclaimed, "You're Esmeralda's best friend and you don't know who Phoebus is?"

"I, uh, travel a lot," fumbled Melenie, getting the feeling that she didn't know something she should know.

"As do we all," said Mirrette, "but you have to be blind to not know who Phoebus is!"

"Well I travel a whole lot..." Melenie began.

"Melenie, don't you remember?" interrupted Rosanna, "The night of the raid on Notre Dame? The man who led the riot against Frollo?"

"What about him?"

"That was Phoebus," said Rosanna, "The former Captain of the Guard. He and Esmeralda have a serious attachment."

"Yes," said Mirrette, "everyone's talking about them! If you ask them, they'll deny their relationship, but mark my words, there is definitely something going on between them!"

Melenie was silent. Her mind was thinking back to the day when she and the other gypsies had all been locked in prison carts, forced to watch Esmeralda burn. The night when Notre Dame's bell ringer came flying down from the sky and carried Esmeralda to the cathedral. "Santcuary!" he called repetitively.

With that, everything happened at once. A beam fell from above and crushed the minister's carriage. Frollo ordered his men to use the beam to break down Notre Dame's door. And a tall blonde man whom Frollo had sentenced to death freed himself and rallied the citizens against concentrated on remembering the image of the man on top of the cart. The golden-haired man with the wide shoulders and the authoritative voice who waved a spear. Was he someone who would intrest Esmeralda? Melenie couldn't perceive how.

"You know," said Mirrette, "some say Phoebus has made her ashamed of her heritage."

"It's making sense now," said Lenorra, "She and Phoebus are a couple. Or rather, they can't be a couple until she joins his religion, which is why she's done this to us! She's abandoning us for that man!"

"She would never abandon us!" Melenie exclaimed.

"Don't be so sure," Rosanna stated in her matter-of-fact voice, "The other night he invited her to dine at his house-or should I say his room-and she practically flew into his arms!"

"His room?" Melenie asked nervously.

"He's lived in a boarding house ever since he was thrown out of his room in the Palace of Justice," explained Rosanna, "Anyway, she came home exceedingly late that night, and I know I'm not the only one who suspects there was more than dinner going on!"

"Yes," said Mirrette, "I've had the same suspicions. After all, the bed is in the same room as the dining table!"

_Not true, not true, not true,_ Melenie thought repeativly to herself as they burst into laughter. How glad she was that mass would be starting shortly. She said goodbye and raced toward the cathedral, her mind a tangle of questions.

Phoebus? Was Esmeralda really letting a man influence her to join his religion? Melenie's sensible side was telling her that those three loved gossip and you had to take anything they said with a few grains of salt, but even so, she couldn't shake the distant warning that they weren't far from the truth...

Esmeralda paced around the crowded sanctuary, feeling a mixture of exhilaration and terror. In a few minutes she would be reborn. It was probobly the excitment and uncertainy of that thought which prevented her usually sharp eyes from noticing Melenie enter and caused them to collide.

"Oh! Melenie!" she exclaimed, momentarily surprised.

How could Melenie even begin? What could she say? She touched her friend on the shoulder and took a deep breath. "Esmeralda.." she began uneasily.

"Melenie," interrupted Esmeralda, "would you please do me a favor?"

"What?" asked Melenie.

Esmeralda removed her golden hoop earring and handed it to Melenie. "Would you please guard these for me?" she asked as she proceeded to remove her bracelets and her anklet, "I'm not allowed to wear jewelry during baptism."

Melenie nodded and took the jewelry. "Of course, I'll guard anything you want."

Esmeralda leaned closer to Melenie and lowered her voice. "In that case, would you please guard something else?" She reached under her skirt and pulled out a tiny drawstring bag with flowers embroidered on it-her most prized posession.

Melenie's jaw dropped. "Isn't that...?"

"Yes, it is," said Esmeralda, "and you're the only one I can trust to guard it."

"But why...?"

"No secret charms allowed either," explained Esmeralda, "Even if the Archdeacon doesn't notice it, the higher authority would."

Melenie nodded and Esmeralda started to walk away, but something inside Melenie was telling her she needed to know the truth. "Esmeralda?" she called.

Esmeralda stopped. "Yes?"

Melenie took a deep breath. "Esmeralda, who is Phoebus?"

For a moment Esmeralda appeared startled, but she quickly gained her composure. She stepped closer to Melenie. "Sorry, what did you say?"

Now an alarm went off in Melenie's head. She could tell Esmeralda had heard her perfectly.

"Esmeralda," she repeated with a hint of annoyance, "who is Phoebus?"

"Phoebus?" said Esmeralda with a hint of hesitation, "He's a retired army captain."

"Retired?" Melenie asked with disbelief.

"Well, actually he was thrown out of the army for insubordination," Esmeralda said quickly, "Do you remember him? He's the one who helped Quasimodo warn us about Frollo's attack.""

Frollo's _trick_ attack, you mean!" inturrpted Melenie.

"Hey, they didn't know they were being tricked," defended Esmeralda.

"Indeed not," said Melenie, "No one ever does!"

"Anyway," said Esmeralda, clearly annoyed, "Phoebus and I have become good friends since I saved him from execution."

Melenie's brows went up. So, she saved him from execution. That would certainly give him a valid reason to love her, but what would she see in him?

What should she say now? "Do you think anything could develop between you?" No, that sounded like an accusation. "Did you have dinner with him the other night?" No, that sounded even more like an accusation. "Is he nice?" No, that was too vauge. "Are you really, really good friends?" No, she would just deny anything with that question.

Melenie couldn't think of anything to do now except kiss her friend on the cheek and offer one final word.

"Esmeralda," she begged, "please don't forget who you really are.

"Esmeralda fingered the bag dangling from Melenie's hand. "Melenie," she whispered, "you know perfectly well that I don't know who I really am."

There she stood at the alter, her eyes gazing up at the sunlight dancing around the intricate stained glass patterns of the rose window. It felt like she was looking up at heaven. The golden rays sent jitters through her body, which grew stronger as the Archdeacon approached kneeled down and bowed her head. A smile crept across her face as she was realizing for herself what was really happening. She had been told countless times what would happen during her studies, but now she really _felt_ it. She breathed rapidly. Her heart pounded. Every nerve on her skin stood up on end at the exhillerating thought. She was being she was conscious of that, she would never forget the absolutly breathtaking feeling she got when the Archdeacon poured the holy water onto her head.

"I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Again, this chapter was written back when I was sixteen, so . . . yeah, I'm pretty embarrassed about it. Some might wonder why I'm even bothering to post this story. Well, first off some people did like it and both the websites it used to be on are gone now, second I do still have some hopes of finishing it (and the later chapters are better than the earlier ones), third . . . I dunno, maybe I think it's kinda interesting to see how my writing style has evolved.

"Second Chances"

by EsmeAmelia

Chapter 3

Quasimodo practically flew down the side of the cathedral after ringing the bells to close the service. He landed squarely on the steps and waited anxiously for Esmeralda, wanting to be the first one to greet her when she came out of the building.

Every few moments a new group of people would emerge from the doors, each of which would be chatting away about the gypsy who'd been baptized. Quasimodo scanned each group carefully for Esmeralda, but there was no sign of her. He shrugged, figuring she was probably lingering inside the building.

After pacing around the snow-covered steps a few times, Quasimodo began to sense he was not alone. He whirled around and found himself looking up at the sharp brown eyes of an about-twenty gypsy woman with a long braid of black hair.

"Melenie?" he exclaimed, "What are you doing here?"

"I imagine the same thing you're doing here," said Melenie, "Waiting for Esmeralda."

"Oh, yes," said Quasimodo, realizing his hope of being the first one to greet her was diminishing. He sighed and leaned against the wall, wondering how long she would leaned aginst the wall a few feet away from him. Esmeralda had introduced her to Quasimodo shortly after the raid on Notre Dame, but not much had developed between them. For Melenie, he was a fine person to chat with for a few minutes if they ran into each other in the street, but no one to ever engage in real conversation with, and certainly not a confidante of any kind. However, she knew Esmeralda thought very differently. Esmeralda had often told her about how Quasimodo was an open ear and a warm hand. Indeed, if Esmeralda were interested in any man Melenie would suspect Quasimodo, not someone who used to be a soldier!

Then it occured to Melenie. If anyone else knew about Esmeralda's real relationship with Phoebus, it would be Quasimodo.

"Quasimodo?" she asked.

"Yes?"

"Quasimodo," said Melenie, "have you had any acquaintance with a man named Phoebus?"

Melenie predicted Quasimodo's reaction. His eyes grew wide for a moment, then he sucked in his breath and stepped closer to her.

"Phoebus?" he said. "He was the previous Captian of the Guard, and..."

Melenie raised her hand. She wasn't about to hear more of that. "That's not what I meant. I mean, you and Esmeralda spend a lot of time together. Has she ever implied any...interest in Phoebus?"

Quasimodo winced. No matter how much he'd tried to ajust himself to it, the mention of the words _Esmeralda_ and _Phoebus_ together still stung him like a bee. He knew the real feelings Esmeralda had for Phoebus, and not for him. He'd known ever since they found out about it themselves. But what should he tell Melenie? He wasn't sure how much they wanted others to know, or how much it was even safe for others to know, but what would Melenie suspect if he said nothing? She would believe Esmeralda had been sinful, or this awkward moment, luck seemed to step in and save him, for the doors opened and Esmeralda emerged, her eyes shining brighter than Quasimodo had ever seen them before.

"Esmeralda!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms around her, "Congratulations again!"

Esmeralda bent over and embraced him back. For a moment he closed his eyes and absorbed her warm touch. When he opened them, they narrowed slightly as the likely reason why Esmeralda was lingering came out of the cathedral.

"Oh, hello Phoebus," he said to the tall blonde man who had just come out of the doors. Melenie's ears perked up at the word _Phoebus_. She automatically recognized the prisoner who had punched out his guard and motivated everyone to fight, only now she eyed him with fascination and suspicion. She decided to try the casual approach; embracing Esmeralda and congratulating her yet again. "How does it feel?" she asked.

"Beyond words," murmured Esmeralda, her eyes still sparkling.

"I'm sure it is," said Melenie, then she turned to Phoebus. "And who's this?"

Esmeralda extended her hand to Phoebus. "Melenie, this is Phoebus." She then extended her other hand to Melenie. "Phoebus, this is Melenie. She has been a good friend of mine for a long time."

Phoebus bowed extravagantly. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Melenie," he said, "I'm Phoebus. It means 'sun god.'"

Melenie's cheeks grew hot. No one had ever addressed her as Mademoiselle before. If he'd introduced himself to Esmeralda like that, Melenie certainly couldn't understand why she would take any interest in a man like him.

Meanwhile Quasimodo couldn't help laughing at Phoebus's suave introduction and Melenie's embarrassed reaction. He had half a mind to tell her this was how Phoebus always introduced himself to women, but then he figured that would be Esmeralda's job. Instead, he turned to Phoebus and approached him with a question to which he knew the answer.

"So Phoebus," he said, "what were you talking about in there?"

"Oh, nothing much," shrugged Phoebus, "I congratulated her, she thanked me, we chatted for a few minutes, that sort of thing."

"Well that was a very long few minutes!" teased Quasimodo, suspecting he knew what they'd been chatting about.

While the men were talking, Melenie seized this opportunity to duck behind a building and give Esmeralda back her things.

"Do they know about this?" Melenie asked, holding up the drawstring bag.

"No," said Esmeralda, quickly taking the bag.

"Not even Phoebus?" Melenie inquired with a raised brow.

"Melenie, what is this sudden interest you have in Phoebus?" Esmeralda asked with a hint of irritation.

"Uh...well...I..." stammered Melenie.

"Have you been talking to Rosanna and the other gossip spreaders?" accused Esmeralda, "Did they tell you some ridiculous story about me and Phoebus?"

There was certainly no denying that. "Esmeralda," Melenie sighed, "people are talking about you. They...they say you...didn't convert sincerely."

"Melenie, I'm ashamed of you!" Esmeralda snapped harshly, "How could you believe such a thing?"

"I never said I _believed_ it!" retorted Melenie, "I'm just saying..."

"Well you obviously have taken an interest interrupted Esmeralda, "Otherwise you would've just taken it as meaningless gossip!"

"Look," said Melenie, "they just think..."

"That Phoebus was the reason I got baptized?"

How could Melenie answer that? She couldn't deny the fact that, although she didn't believe it per se, the rumors she'd heard had stemed worry in her head. Being completely honest with herself, she'd been fiercely trying not to believe it.

Esmeralda could see the concern in her friend's eyes. She reached over and touched her on the shoulder.

"Melenie," she said. Her voice was gentle now. "Are you worried about me?"

Melenie could feel tears forming in her eyes. She nodded guiltily.

Now Esmeralda wrapped her arms around her friend. "Melenie, hear what I say," she whispered, "You and the other gypsies are always what's most important to me. No matter what may happen, I would never leave you."

Melenie touched the bag hanging from Esmeralda's fingers. "Not even if you found _them?"_

Esmeralda was silent.

. . . . .

Meanwhile Quasimodo and Phoebus had noticed the women's absence and were now searching for them.

"Oh, I'm sure they're around, probably discussing some secret Gypsy matters," stated Phoebus as he peered around a wall.

"Probably," replied Quasimodo, "but keep looking anyway."

"Yes, I know," said Phoebus, bending over. He reached down and cupped his hands in the snow.

"Phoebus, what are you doing?" Quasimodo asked suspiciously.

Phoebus didn't answer as he formed the snow into a ball.

"Oh no!" gasped Quasimodo, "Phoebus, you wouldn't!"

"And whyever not?" quipped Phoebus with a sly grin.

"It's childish, it's improper, and it's Sunday," stated Quasimodo. "And furthermore..."

Phoebus wasn't about to listen to what would come after "and furthermore," for he spied Esmeralda and Melenie coming out from behind a building. Giggling slightly, he took aim and threw the snowball, which hit Esmeralda on the shoulder.

Esmeralda momentarily jumped in surprise, then she glared at her attacker, bent over, and formed her own snowball. "Gather your troops, Captain!" she shouted as she flung the snowball at Phoebus, "This means WAR!"

Within thirty seconds, Esmeralda and Phoebus were engaged in laugh-happy snowball combat, as Quasimodo and Melenie exchanged raised-eyebrow glances and shook their heads."Do they always act like this?" Melenie asked, pointing at the two fighters in a snowball-throwing frenzy.

"No," said Quasimodo, ducking one of Esmeralda's balls, "Sometimes they act completely crazy." He turned to Esmeralda, who had tackled Phoebus to the ground and was now shoving snow in his face. "Will you two stop that fighting?"

"Who's fighting?" sputtered Phoebus, "I surrender!"

"Fine," said Esmeralda with a cheeky grin, "but I still have one snowball left. It would be such a shame to waste it!"

Phoebus covered his eyes as Esmeralda raised her hand to strike. His action proved unnecessary, however, since at that very moment an icy sting hit the back of Esmeralda's neck like a whip. She jumped in pain and rubbed her burning neck. This hadn't been a playful snowball thrown just for fun.

She turned to find an old woman with frazzled gray hair and bared teeth slinking toward her. The woman's eyes resembled hot coals, and her teeth resembled fangs. She wore nothing but a skimpy old dress, but she showed no signs of chill despite the cold wind blowing through her hair and the ice under her bare feet. Rage and hate were her only expressions."You damn wretch!" she yelled, "You bloodthirsty snake!" She spat in the snow and growled like a wild animal, her eyes so wide with hatred they were almost popping out of their sockets. "You filthy, damned witch!" she continued, "You muderous devil!" She yanked at her own hair like a mad woman then, with much more strength than one would expect from such a feeble-looking body, she shoved Esmeralda down into the snow.

Esmeralda lay there staring up at the woman as she spat one final time and ran off growling. Phoebus rushed over and helped Esmeralda to her feet. "Are you all right?"

Esmeralda brushed snow off her skirt. "Yes," was all she managed to say.

Quasimodo didn't know which was more confusing: this mad woman who appeared out of nowhere and attacked Esmeralda for no reason, or the fact that Esmeralda didn't fight back. He knew enough about gypsies to know that it was a gypsy's deepest instinct to always fight back when threatened. Why, or even, how, could she fight off that instinct and just lie there allowing that woman to carry out her blows?

"Esmeralda, who was that?" he asked.

"Sister Gedule," Esmeralda said in a disgusted voice. "At least, that's what everyone calls her."

"Why was she after you?" continued Quasimodo.

"She hates gypsies," Esmeralda said bluntly. "Many say she's insane. She spends most of her time locked in her tiny house. She'll stay there for days, sometimes weeks, and throw curses at us through the window."

"How does she get food?"

"People leave food on her windowsill," replied Esmeralda.

"What does she do when she leaves her house?"

"What you just saw," said Esmeralda quickly, clearly uncomfortable with the subject.

Phoebus could see her discomfort. He decided it would be best to withdraw from this conversation.

"Esmeralda," he offered, "would you like to come to my place for lunch?"

No one saw Melenie's eyes grow wide.

"Yes, thank you," replied Esmeralda, 'That would be very nice."

Phoebus turned to Quasimodo. "Would you like to join us?"

"Of course," said Quasimodo.

Phoebus turned to Melenie. "How about you?"

"Oh, no thank you," said Melenie, trying to conceal her shock, "My caravan will be leaving soon."

"All right," said Phoebus, "It was nice meeting you."

"It was nice meeting you, too," Melenie said awkwardly, then she turned to Esmeralda, "I shall see you soon."

"Take care," said Esmeralda, "Goodbye!" Then she was off for the boarding house with Phoebus and Quasimodo.

Melenie stared at them until they vanished from sight. So, she thought, that was Phoebus. Melenie didn't think she knew him enough to give fair judgment, but from what she had seen, he seemed very calm, yet somewhat feisty, and suave. Would Esmeralda show interest in him? This was the question that lingered on Melenie's head for the rest of the day.

. . . . . .

Small.

That was always the first word that came into Quasimodo's head whenever he visited Phoebus's room on the second floor of the Paris boarding house. Everything in it was small. The bed was barely big enough for one person, and covered with five layers of blankets because the fireplace was too tiny to decently heat a room. A clothes press, a bookshelf, and a cupboard completely covered one wall. In the center of the room stood two well-worn armchairs, and next to a window with a limited view stood a table big enough to seat three-four if you crammed the chairs together.

Quasimodo supposed this was all Phoebus could afford since he'd been dismissed of his rank. Since his dismissal he'd been working in the bakery for, as Quasimodo was always told, "a decent salary." Perhaps what he meant by a decent salary was just enough to pay for food and rent for this small room, but Quasimodo would never ask. He would just graciously hang up his cloak and take his seat at the table. Esmeralda did the same.

While Phoebus prepared their meal, Quasimodo and Esmeralda chatted amiably about various things, but I won't bother you with irrelevant details. I will just tell you that whenever Quasimodo asked about that old woman, she would steer away from the subject, as if something really disturbed her.

Phoebus soon arrived with three bowls of hot soup and a plate of rolls. He served everyone, and they all began eating heartily, especially Esmeralda, who had barly eaten anything that morning. For a long time, no one said anything, until Phoebus began gazing out the window, like he was trying to figure something out.

"Should be melted enough tomorrow," he muttered.

"What?" said Esmeralda, looking up from her soup.

"Oh, I was just saying the snow should be melted enough for travel tomorrow," said Phoebus, a little uneasily.

"Why would you worry about that?" asked Esmeralda, a hint of distress in her voice.

Phoebus took a few moments to answer. "Okay, I would've had to tell you sooner or later," he finally replied with a sigh, "Esmeralda...I'm leaving Paris."

Now there was very distinct distress in Esmeralda's voice. "What? Where are you going? When will you be back?"

"I'm spending Christmas with my mother."

At this moment Quasimodo was chewing on a roll, so he couldn't respond, but his eyes sparked with interest. Quasimodo had known Phoebus for almost a year, but this was the first time he'd mentioned family of any kind. Quasimodo had never pondered Phoebus's origin, but if he had, he probably would've assumed Phoebus was an orphan, like Esmeralda and himself. The thought that he had a living mother came as an unlikely shock.

Esmeralda apparantly felt the same surprise. "Your...mother?" she asked.

"Yes," said Phoebus, "My mother. Madame Annette de Chateaupers'. She left Paris a few years ago in pursuit of a quieter lifestyle and bought a house in the country."

By now Quasimodo had swallowed, so he could finally speak. "And you decided to stay here?" he asked.

"No," said Phoebus. "I wasn't even in France at the time. I was in the army."

Quasimodo felt like slapping himself. Of course.

"I've only seen her new home once," continued Phoebus, "Last year, when I was summoned back to Paris, I stopped at her house for an afternoon visit." He shook his head. "But two hours isn't enough to make up for twenty years of separation, which is why this visit is so important. Besides, this time the whole family's coming." His voice grew noticeably softer. "And Minerva will be there."

"Minerva?" Esmeralda exclaimed, glaring at Phoebus, "Who is Minerva?"

Phoebus couldn't help laughing. "Relax," he said, "Minerva's my sister."

"Oh, I didn't know you had a sister," inquired Quasimodo.

Phoebus grinned. "Actually, I have four brothers and sisters, and they'll all be there!"

"Then what's so special about Minerva?" asked Esmeralda.

"Well you see, Minerva and I have an innate bond," explained Phoebus, "It's because we were brought up together from the very beginning. We shared our mother's womb."

Quasimodo and Esmeralda's eyes simultaneously widened. In a hundred years neither of them would ever suspect this!

"So, in other words..." Esmeralda finally managed to say, "you're a twin?"

Phoebus nodded.

"My word!" exclaimed Quasimodo, "Why didn't you ever tell us?"

"You never asked," Phoebus stated plainly, "One doesn't usually go around shouting to the world that he's a twin, especially when he hasn't seen his twin in twenty years!"

No one could argue with that. "Well anyway," said Esmeralda, "what is she like?"

Phoebus's smile grew wider. "She's a ball of fire. She doesn't walk: she flies. She doesn't laugh: she hollers. When we were young, we would play tricks on each other, and everyone else. A pair of rascals, we were!"

"Really, I never would have guessed," Esmeralda replied with a sly grin. "What are your other siblings like?"

"Well, I have two older sisters, Diana and Thalia. They were twelve and eight when Minerva and I were born, so..." He giggled. "..they were our main practical joke targets. Minerva was always thinking up new ways to tease those snoots. One night, she sewed Diana's blankets to her nightgown while she was sleeping. The next morning, she came downstairs dragging the blankets behind her!"

Esmeralda laughed, while Quasimodo rolled his eyes around, but even he couldn't hold back a little snicker.

"Another time," continued Phoebus, "we snuck into Thaila's room and cut holes in one of her dresses. We couldn't sit down for a long time afterward, but it was worth it to hear Thiala shriek."

Now Quasimodo was the one exploding in giggles. "So," he said after he caught his breath, "what about your other sibling?"

"He's younger," said Phoebus, "We didn't bother with him much. Ulysses was the baby of the family. To me he was a brat, and Diana and Thalia were snobs. But Minerva..." He sighed. "Minerva was my best friend. More than my best friend. She was...I don't know how to explain it, other than that we were really, really close."

"How close were you?" asked Esmeralda, "Did you do anything besides play practical jokes?"

"Of course we did!" said Phoebus, "Like I said, we were inseparable. We shared everything: toys, our room, our birthday, the food we stole from our mother's parties, everything. We'd go swimming, sledding, tree-climbing (which really angered our mother), tell stories, make up games, get into trouble. We always vowed to stick with each other and take punishments together, even if only one of us was in trouble. As a joke, we'd call each other by our Greek names. You know, Apollo and Athena. They were our passcodes for when we didn't want anyone bothering us."

It dawned on Quasimodo that Phoebus's voice had changed while he talked about these memories. It had become warmer and more delicate, like something deep inside him had been touched.

"And before you accuse me of being picky," continued Phoebus, "let me tell you I'm looking forward to seeing the whole family again."

"What about your father?" asked Esmeralda, "Will he be there too?"

Phoebus's smile faded. "No."

"Why not?"

Phoebus breathed in deeply. "My father is dead."

Esmeralda lowered her head. "Oh, I-I'm sorry," she stuttered, "I didn't know."

"It's all right," said Phoebus. "He died when Minerva and I were just two years old. I don't remember him at all, so I don't miss him. I don't need any sympathy."

Now this was something Quasimodo could relate too! He'd often wondered about his own mother whom he'd never known, the mother he long thought had abandoned him, but actually died for him. How he wished he could have known her.

Did he miss her?

No, without recollection he couldn't miss her. Yet sometimes he felt a strange sort of emptiness, like a part of him was gone forever. He wondered if Phoebus felt the same way.

"What did he die of?" continued Esmeralda, "Illness?"

"No, nothing like that," answered Phoebus, "He was...he was murdered."

"Murdered?" exclaimed Esmeralda.

"Okay, I'll tell you the story," said Phoebus. "My father, Captain Pierre de Chateaupers', was a war hero. Actually, I come from a long line of war heroes; we're quite a military family. Well, back to my father, he served as Captain of the Guard for two years. I'm not very good at telling long detailed stories, especially when I don't know all the details, so I'll get straight to the point. He was beaten to death in a criminal riot."

Esmeralda and Quasimodo sharply drew in their breaths.

"My mother, as you can imagine, was devastated," continued Phoebus, "Indeed, from what I've heard, the only things that saved her from going mad were her two children, her two toddlers, and her expectant status.

"The family takes great pride in its military history. Well, they must, because they want to pass it down into each generation. Before he died, my father had the destiny of his oldest son written in stone: he would serve in the French army just like his father before him. And well, guess who his oldest son was?"

"You," said Quasimodo.

Phoebus nodded.

"So your mother fulfilled the tradition by sending you to the army?" asked Esmeralda.

Phoebus nodded again. "I was sent to the army as a page once I was old enough."

"How old were you?" asked Quasimodo.

Phoebus sighed. "Eight."

"You were only eight?" Quasimodo asked with amazement.

"Hey, I was one of the luckier ones," said Phoebus, "Some of the boys were seven. But let me tell you, being a year older doesn't make it any easier. Can you imagine being taken away from your family as a little kid?"

"Some of us don't have a family to be taken away from," Esmeralda grumbled.

Either Phoebus didn't hear her or he didn't know how to respond to that statement. Whatever the case, he continued as if she hadn't spoken.

"And then after being taken away from your family, imagine being forced to live in a world where you can never get away from hunger, pain, and death, and you're not a whole person, but belonging to the army! Can you imagine that?"

Quasimodo had never heard Phoebus talk so bitterly. It struck him for the first time what the former captain must have suffered. Years of pain, hunger, fear, loneliness. Fear. Loneliness. Quasimodo could understand completely.

"I haven't seen my siblings since then," Phoebus continued in a somewhat softer manner, "Minerva and I wrote to each other for a time, but...as the years went by our priorities gradually changed. The letters stopped coming."

Esmeralda was deeply sympathetic. "It must have been awful."

Phoebus reached over and took her hand. "Like I said, I don't need sympathy. I'll see them again soon. Besides, in the end I'm glad for it."

"How can you possibly be glad?"

Phoebus lightly kissed her hand. "It's how I eventually met you."

. . . . .

Later that day, as Quasimodo rang the afternoon bells, his mind lingered at Phoebus's table and the conversations which had taken place there. A whole new side of Phoebus had opened itself to Quasimodo today. It was odd, this notion that he had a family, and Quasimodo couldn't understand why. Phoebus was a human being, so of course he had to have been conceived by a man and born of a woman, like everyone else. Maybe it was just that the very notion of family in general was so alien to Quasimodo. Frollo was the closest thing he'd ever had to family. (And THAT should certainly be enough to explain everything!)

And yet, there was so much Quasimodo could identify with, such as living in fear, not being a whole person but belonging to someone, having a parent who was a total stranger; it was amazing how Phoebus had been through so much Quasimodo could personally understand.

There was even a dash of envy for him, mainly because of the talk about having a sister. A sister. Someone to bond with, to share everything with, someone who would stand by you in times of trouble: it sounded so heavenly. During his years of isolation Quasimodo would have given anything for a sister.

Over the last year Quasimodo had developed a strong bond with Esmeralda, much like being brother and sister, yet somehow he didn't think of her as his sister. Why? Perhaps because he initially had hoped for a much deeper relationship with her: the kind where you are two and yet only one.

It wasn't to be. Esmeralda was meant to be Quasimodo's sister and nothing more. (Readers, we don't need to keep you in suspense any longer. You already knew what Esmeralda felt for Phoebus, didn't you?) He had brought himself to accept that, but he often wondered if he was ment to have that stronger relationship with anyone.

But he wasn't wondering today. Today, he felt compassion for a friend, curiosity for what his family was like. And most of all, joy. Joy for his sister who had been welcomed into God's kingdom.

. . . . . .

Esmeralda walked leisurely down the street, paying attention to nothing in particular, when the corner of her eye caught the figure of Clopin passing. She turned to find him bending over at the entrance to a narrow alley. A few steps toward him, and she spied what he was doing.

He was giving a large pile of food and blankets to a pair of beggars in the alley.

A warm smile spread across Esmeralda's face. She knew he would distribute her money well.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Probably no one's reading this, but I'm posting it anyway. God, I can't believe how long these older chapters are.

"Second Chances"

by EsmeAmelia

Chapter 4.

It turned out to be three days before the snow was melted enough to travel. For Esmeralda, this meant three more days with Phoebus, but for Phoebus, it meant an extra delay before he could see his family. And Minerva. If anyone knew his thoughts, they'd tell him he'd already spent twenty years without seeing them: a few more days will do nothing. That was precisely why he didn't tell anyone his thoughts, because they wouldn't understand anything. But, the three days did pass, and the roads did clear, which meant he could finally start his journey. He was loading Achilles up with his belongings when Quasimodo and Esmeralda arrived to say goodbye.

"Have a safe journey," said Quasimodo, patting his friend on the back.

"Uh, thank you," said Phoebus, rubbing his suddenly sore back.

"Oh, sorry," said Quasimodo.

"No you're not!" said Phoebus, at which they both started laughing.

"What are you two laughing about?" asked Esmeralda, who had just entered the stable.

"Just remembering some old times," said Phoebus with a grin.

"Well start living in the present and say goodbye!" giggled Esmeralda.

"All right," said Quasimodo. He turned to Phoebus. "Merry Christmas, good luck seeing your family again, and all that."

"Same to you," said Phoebus, "Well, not the 'good luck seeing your family again' part, but the 'Merry Christmas' part." He shook Quasimodo's hand. "It's a shame I'll miss your first Christmas out of the tower, though."

"Oh, don't worry about that," said Quasimodo.

"Who said I was?" grinned Phoebus.

"No one, that's why I told you not to start," said Quasimodo, "What are we talking about anyway?"

"I believe we're saying goodbye.

""Right," said Quasimodo, "Well, bon voyage. I hope we'll see you again soon."

"Thank you," said Phoebus.

Quasimodo turned and started to walk away, but then he stopped and looked back. There was one more thing he felt Phoebus deserved before he left.

"Forgive me," Quasimodo said. He stepped up to Phoebus and hugged him.

Esmeralda smiled warmly as she watched the men embrace, trying hard to ignore the lump that was forming in her throat at the thought that she too would soon have to say goodbye to Phoebus.

Too soon, Quasimodo let go of Phoebus and stepped aside, which meant the time had come. Esmeralda swallowed hard and approached Phoebus, wondering why she suddenly felt so shy.

"Well...I guess we should get this over with," she said uneasily.

"Yes...we probably should," said Phoebus, equally uneasily.

"Well then," said Esmeralda, "may you be well in all your travels. A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year."

"Thank you," said Phoebus, but he wasn't making eye contact. His eyes were constantly glancing up suspiciously, as if he was trying to get Esmeralda's attention.

"What are you looking at?" asked Esmeralda. She looked up and gasped when she saw what was dangling from Achilles' ear – right over her head.

Mistletoe.

"PHOEBUS!" she exclaimed.

Phoebus grinned slyly. "Surely you've learned enough about our customs to know what happens to someone when she stands under mistletoe!"

"You still haven't outgrown the sneaky tricks, have you?" sneered Esmeralda.

"Well like it or not, you're standing under mistletoe," said Phoebus, "And I am forced to carry out tradition!"

"Phoebus, you are absolutely impossible!" Esmeralda snapped, but she couldn't stop a grin from creeping across her face.

"I know, but let's get on with this," said Phoebus, taking her hand, "Tradition, you know!"

Esmeralda's smile grew wider as she nodded. "Tradition," she repeated.

And hence, they carried out tradition. Phoebus took Esmeralda's face into his hands and passionatly kissed her. As they kissed, Esmeralda wrapped her arms around his neck, absorbing the sensation in her lips.

Quasimodo watched from the corner of the stable. For a moment his mind traveled back to when he'd witnessed a similar happening many months ago: the time Phoebus was injured and Esmeralda begged Quasimodo to let him stay in the tower. He had agreed to perform the difficult task: not only the difficult task of protecting Phoebus but the more difficult task of facing the hard reality that Esmeralda, the woman he loved, loved another. Neither Esmeralda nor Phoebus knew what he had felt for her, and he would never tell them. How could he ever tell the two people who had stood by him in life-and-death situations that they had broken his heart? No, they had done too much for him. He had vowed to himself that he would always help them when they were in need, and accept his position as Esmeralda's best friend and brother, nothing more.

So why did it still hurt so much to see them kiss?

Meanwhile Esmeralda and Phoebus were lost in each other. This was far from being the first time they had shared one of these moments, but no amount of repetition could reduce the thrill. It took an effort on both their parts to force their lips to separate.

"Well..." Esmeralda said after a few moments, "I guess it's time for you to leave."

"Yes...yes it is," said Phoebus, taking her hand again. "But don't you worry. I'll be back after the New Year starts." He paused and gave a sheepish grin. "Actually, you should probably be glad I'm seeing my mother. There's something...very important I need to discuss with her."

Esmeralda's heart thumped. "Of course," was all she could say.

Phoebus planted a kiss on her hand. "Merry Christmas," he whispered. Then, with great reluctance, he let her hand slip out of his and mounted onto Achilles.

"Phoebus?" Esmeralda said suddenly.

He looked down at her. "Yes?"

She couldn't find the words she wanted to say. "I...I never actually said goodbye," she stammered.

"No...no you didn't."

"Well then, goodbye," said Esmeralda.

"Esmeralda, I..." started Phoebus.

"Yes?"

"I...I never actually said goodbye either," he stammered.

"No, you didn't," replied Esmeralda.

"Well then, goodbye."

Why were they talking so awkwardly? Neither could tell, yet neither could bring themselves to talk more naturally. Perhaps this was why they didn't say another word. From atop Achilles, Phoebus blew a quick last kiss at Esmeralda, then he turned and with a click of his tongue, his horse trotted out of the stable and galloped into the street.

Esmeralda stared after him and waved goodbye. She continued waving at him long after he disappeared from sight.

"And what was that all about?"

Esmeralda snapped out of the trance and turned to find Melenie glaring sharply at her.

"Melenie?" she exclaimed.

"What were you doing in there?" Melenie snapped, "Never mind, I saw the whole thing!"

"You saw that?" Esmeralda said faintly.

"Yes," said Melenie, "Now tell me the truth! What is the real relationship between you and him?"

"We are _friends!_" Esmeralda still insisted.

The younger gypsy would no longer believe that statement. "Friends? Ha! People who are just friends don't act the way you just did! You would never kiss Clopin like that!"

"I would never _kiss_ Clopin!" retorted Esmeralda.

"Case in point," stated Melenie, "Now tell me the whole story!"

"It is nothing for you to worry about," said Esmeralda.

"It's nothing for me to worry about when my best friend isn't being honest with me?"

For once Esmeralda was speechless. No brushing it off, no insisting Melenie was wrong, no efforts to defend herself, nothing. She just stared coldly at her friend, with wide eyes and an open mouth, breathing deeply.

Melenie saw this as confirmation. "How could you do this? Why would you let him influence you to throw away all you have?"

Esmeralda's voice returned, loud and angry. "You _do_ believe those horrid rumors! How could you?"

"How could _you?_" shouted Melenie.

"I _didn't!_" snapped Esmeralda.

"Why should I believe you?" Melenie snapped back. "You lied to me about you and Phoebus: why wouldn't you lie to me about your conversion?"

"Melenie, why are you jumping to conclusions?" Esmeralda said firmly, "Why are you convinced that I've betrayed you simply because you saw one kiss?"

"Maybe I'm just concerned about your well being," said Melenie, "Don't you realize what he is?"

"What he _was,_" corrected Esmeralda, "And yes, I realize he _was_ our enemy, but he has moved on from that!"

"How can you be so sure?" exclaimed Melenie, "You talk like you can read his inner thoughts! Even if he has reformed, he was still raised as a soldier!"

"So?"

Melenie couldn't believe what she was hearing. "So he could lapse back to being our enemy!"

"You could say that about anyone!" argued Esmeralda. "People change all the time. Your best friend today can become your worst enemy tomorrow! But you can't just go around convinced the whole world is against you!"

"Even so, he's not a blood Gypsy!"

This was the final straw. "Melenie," Esmeralda said through clenched teeth, "how do you know _I'm_a blood Gypsy?"

Melenie stared at her with a mixture of anger, disappointment, and sadness. "Fine!" she finally snapped, "Maybe you're not really a Gypsy! That would explain why your loyalties lie elsewhere!" She turned sharply and stormed away before Esmeralda could say another word.

Esmeralda stared after her in confusion, almost unable to notice Quasimodo approaching her.

"What was that all about?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, blinking back tears.

. . . . .

That night, as Melenie packed up for the next morning's departure, she felt horribly guilty about the things she'd said to Esmeralda. How did things get so mixed up? Why had she exploded over just seeing her best friend kiss a Frenchman?

That was the very reason: she _had_ seen her best friend kiss a Frenchman, and not just a Frenchman, but a Frenchman who was once a soldier!

But now, as she reviewed the day's events in her head, she felt like she'd done her friend a horrible injustice. How could she have shown such disloyalty to someone who was almost a sister? She knew she could never live with herself if she left for Spain without making amends, so she nervously made her way to the front of Esmeralda's tent.

"Esmeralda," she whispered, "are you asleep?"

"No."

Actually, Esmeralda _had_ been asleep a few moments ago, but she was fully awakened by Melenie's footsteps. She always slept lightly, for deep sleep could mean death. Anything could happen: a caravan could depart, a thief could steal hard-earned money, or most likely, soldiers could attack. Thus, she always had to be on her guard, even when asleep. She may appear to be resting peacefully, but with the slightest sound she would be awake and prepared to fight.

At this moment she wouldn't have to fight, but she would have to face a friend who was angry at her: a task almost as difficult. She hesitantly opened the flap of her tent to find Melenie standing there with her head hung low.

"Esmeralda," she said timidly, "may I please come in?"

"That depends," said Esmeralda.

"Depends on what?"

"Depends on whether or not you're here to yell at me some more!"

"No," said Melenie, almost in a whisper, "I'm not. I promise."

"All right, then, come in," said Esmeralda. Melenie followed Esmeralda into the tent, where they sat down on Esmeralda's bed. Esmeralda lit a tiny candle to provide them with enough light to see each other.

"Esmeralda..." Melenie began.

"Shhh," whispered Esmeralda. She pointed at Djali, who was sleeping in the corner of the tent.

Melenie rolled her eyes around. "That goat could sleep through a thunderstorm," she snorted.

"Well a thunderstorm is quieter than you!" grinned Esmeralda.

For a moment Melenie found herself grinning back, but she quickly recovered her serious expression. "Esmeralda," she began again, "please accept my apology. I didn't mean to come on so harsh."

"But you still believe Phoebus was the reason I converted," Esmeralda said coldly.

Melenie hung her head. "I don't want to believe it." "

Then don't," said Esmeralda, "There is no reason to."

"Is there any reason not to?" inquired Melenie.

"Yes there is," Esmeralda stated bluntly, "It is not true. He had nothing to do with it."

This was Melenie's chance. The question she'd been longing to ask finally came out. "Then exactly why did you convert?"

At first Melenie feared that Esmeralda would take that as an offense, but Esmeralda seemed to be taking the question seriously. She closed her eyes for a few seconds. "It's hard to explain...I sort of gradually became aware of my longings for something to have faith in, I guess."

Melenie looked confused.

Esmeralda knew that explanation probably wasn't satisfactory. She closed her eyes again. "When I claimed sanctuary in Notre Dame...I think that's when I had my first inklings."

"What happened?" asked Melenie.

"After the Archdeacon told me I had sanctuary and ushered the soldiers out, Frollo..." she trailed off.

"What?"

Esmeralda wouldn't answer.

Melenie caught her drift. "If it disturbs you, you don't have to talk about it."

Esmeralda sighed. "I guess I don't mind talking about it. Frollo sneaked up behind me and grabbed my hand, twisting it up behind my back."

Melenie winced at the thought.

Esmeralda told Melenie about how Frollo made it known that he would never give up on his intent to capture her – and how he hinted at his real inner desire. "...just before he finally left, he said 'You've chosen a magnificent prison, but it is a prison nonetheless. Set one foot outside, and you're mine!' Then he slammed the door. Suddenly I felt horribly trapped. Trapped and furious. Furious with Frollo, furious with Paris, furious with the world. I was imprisoned for an indefinite amout of time. Why? Because I had tried to help someone! Why was I living in a world where helping people was a crime? Why was Frollo allowed to continue percecuting us? Why, why, WHY?"Fed up with these questions, I slumped against the wall and sulked. The Archdeacon soon found me while he was lighting candles. He warned me not to act rashly. Act rashly? When Frollo was allowing the crowd to go mad torturing Quasimodo, who was the one acting rashly? I informed him of that, then he said 'You can't right all the wrongs of this world by yourself.' My frustration with the world increased (if that was at all possible) because I knew he was right. However much I was able to accomplish, I was still just one person, and I had no allies in this awful world. I told the Archdeacon 'No one out there's going to help, that's for sure.' He said 'Perhaps there's someone in here who can.' Then he left me to my thoughts."

"What did you do?" asked Melenie.

"At first his statement confused me," explained Esmeralda, "I made my way to a hall where I saw all these people with their heads bowed in prayer. At this moment of such bitterness, that sight gave me pause. They had something to bring them hope, something to relieve them of their fears, something to trust in. They had a faith. I almost envied them, for I had nothing like that.

"I turned around and gazed up at a statue of the Virgin Mary holding her Child. Her face...it almost seemed to be smiling at me, like she knew my troubles."

Melenie raised her brows skeptically, but she said nothing.

"After that...something happened," continued Esmeralda, "I don't know how to describe it...no, I can't describe it: our earthly vocabulary is far too limited. But something happened...something that made made do something I'd never thought I'd do before.

"I prayed.

"I prayed for my people, for the world, for myself. That was my first inkling."

Melenie nodded.

"During the events that followed, I began to have more and more inklings. Like...Quasimodo. Immediately after I finished my prayer, I found him listening, and we instantly form a bond. At the time I didn't think of it as an answer to my prayer, but in hindsight it seems like through Quasimodo, God was showing me that someone else did care. I don't know...anyway, later on, Phoebus..."

"Phoebus?" interrupted Melenie.

"No, this isn't what you think!" snapped Esmeralda, "Phoebus refused an order to burn down a mill with the family inside!"

Melenie's eyes widened. "Is that how he was thrown out of the army?"

Esmeralda nodded. "It's also how I saved him from execution. He was sentenced to death by beheading, but I enabled him to escape by throwing a rock at Frollo's horse. He almost made it, but an arrow pierced his shoulder and knocked him off a bridge and into the river. I pulled him out. And here, something I never thought possible was occurring. A _soldier_ cared!"

"So he _did_have something to do with it!" said Melenie.

"Not in the sense that you think!" snapped Esmeralda. "Stop interrupting! Through him and through Quasimodo I found assurance that other people cared.

"I'm not sure exactly when I made the actual decision to convert, but I'm certain it started when I stood on the steps of Notre Dame that glorious morning."

Melenie well remembered that.

"The real impossible had occurred. I was alive! That alone was unbelievable, but then when I beckoned Quasimodo to come out...and that child approached him...I can't describe it. For the first time in my life, I felt like all was right with the world. Yet, I knew that wasn't true: the world was still far from perfection. But the sight of Quasimodo finally being accepted gave me assurance that there was hope. There was hope for the future, but we would have to work for it. Somehow I sensed that I had been blessed with survival so I could continue to strive for a better world. That's what eventually led me to get baptized."

Melenie smiled warmly.

Esmeralda scrunched her face. "I got too dramatic there, didn't I?"

"No, no, you didn't," said Melenie, "Thank you. I understand better now."

Esmeralda smiled at her friend, but she still saw a glimmer of worry in her eyes. "Is something else wrong?"

This was Melenie's chance to ask the other question that had been lingering on her head. "Esmeralda," she said carefully, "I know he didn't make you convert, but do you have any...feelings for Phoebus?"

Esmeralda gave no answer, but she gave no signs of denial either. She just looked down and started fiddling with her precious little bag.

"Do you?" Melenie persisted.

Esmeralda looked up and faced Melenie in the eye. "I haven't lost my virginity," she said firmly, "Rest assured of that. And I will not lose my virginity!"

"That's good, but that wasn't my question," said Melenie. Esmeralda once again was silent and returned to fiddling with her bag.

Melenie could see she wouldn't get anywhere. Esmeralda would never give a direct answer to this question. But her silence just might be answering for her.

Melenie reached over and gently touched one of the yellow flowers embroidered on the bag. "You know, my mother sewed these," she said, "She wanted you to have something special to keep that treasure in."

"I know," Esmeralda said softly. She gazed down at the bag. "Melenie..." she said after a few moments, "did your mother ever tell you about my parents?"

Melenie smiled sadly. "She didn't, you know that. All I know is what you know."

"What I know..." Esmeralda repeated. She looked up thoughtfully. "Your mother was married to my father. She never told me who he was: whether he was a gypsy or anything else. He ran around on other women and she left him. Through one of those affairs I was born."

Melenie nodded. "I don't think my mother knew your father had had a child when she left him."

"And no one knows what happened to my parents. Or if they do, they haven't told me. For my whole childhood I was passed from family to family."

"Until my mother found you!" Melenie grinned, "I don't know how she learned you were the daughter of her ex-husband – I think Clopin told her – but she took you in and we became sisters!"

Esmeralda smiled. "A very brave thing for her to do after she'd remarried and had a child. Why do you think she did it?"

"I don't know," Melenie shrugged, "Maybe she really did love your father after all and wanted to make it up to him."

"Or maybe the opposite," said Esmeralda, "Maybe she wanted me to have a better life than he would have given me. I mean, he probably abandoned my mother, whoever she was..."

"Well that doesn't matter," said Melenie, "I know my parents loved you." She sighed. "I wish we could have been sisters longer."

Both women were hushed when they remembered the terrible disease that killed Melenie's parents soon after they took Esmeralda in.

Melenie touched Esmeralda's bag again. "My mother wanted you to have this when you were older, but when she knew she was dying..." She trailed off.

Esmeralda nodded. "The last time I saw her, she gave this to me and said it would lead me to my family."

"Do you think it ever will?" asked Melenie.

Esmeralda sighed. "I don't know. I've had it for twelve years and nothing has happened, and the more time that goes by, the less likely it is that I'll ever find them..."

"Don't lose faith," said Melenie.

Esmeralda smiled. "I have no intention to. But even after I find them, you will always be my little sister."

Melenie awkwardly returned the smile. "If you can call me that." She and Esmeralda were never sure if they could call themselves sisters. After Melenie's parents died, the two girls were separated. Melenie was sent to live with another family in a different caravan, while it was decided that Esmeralda, being nearly fourteen, was old enough to look out for herself.

"I wish we could have been sisters longer," Melenie said again.

"I do too, but we've gotten away from the subject here," said Esmeralda, "Do you feel better about my decision now?"

Melenie gazed into her friends eyes. "Yes," she said, "Thank you." She leaned over and hugged her. "My caravan's leaving tomorrow. We shall meet again in the spring."

Esmeralda wrapped her arms around Melenie, and the two remained in that tight embrace for several moments before reluctantly letting go. Melenie rose and slowly made her way towards the tent's entrance, but before she left, she turned and looked back at Esmeralda."I love you, my almost sister," she said.

Esmeralda smiled and returned those words.

. . . . . . .

Outside, Melenie thought about what Esmeralda had said. She still wasn't comfortable with her friend's decision, but at least now she had a little more understanding. Though she didn't know what future might be planned for her friend, or how well the other gypsies would accept her, or what her real feelings for Phoebus were, one thing was certain. As she gazed at the snow sparkling in the moonlight, she nodded to herself again. She would continue to support her almost sister.

. . . . . .

Wrapped up in her many layers of blankets, Esmeralda's hand kept slipping down to her little bag. The feeling of the flower stitches bumping against her fingers always made her think about her identity. The child of an immoral relationship, with no knowledge of her mother or her father. What kind of man had been unfaithful to her best friend's mother? Who was the unfortunate woman who'd been abandoned with child? Were they even alive? Would she ever know?

For years had these questions rested on her mind, with only Melenie knowing about them. Perhaps another thing that had led her to be baptized was her longing for an identity. After such a long time, she no longer thought of herself just as a child of an unknown, immoral relationship. Now she was one of God's children.

It was a wonderful comfort, though she still longed to know about her origin. Perhaps someday she'd find out who she was. Someday. With her faith and her family on her mind, she fell asleep, clutching her bag.

. . . . . .

Phoebus stared up at the mansion. Four stories high, over one hundred rooms, and owned by an old widow with imperfect legs. Many were confused how Annette de Chateaupers' could run this house, but her children weren't. Her children knew that their mother was a strong leader, who, even at sixty-five years old, even after age had deteriorated her legs, ruled with driving force. They would never forget the way she raised them. Not even her son who had been in the army for twenty years would ever forget. After gazing up at the house for a few moments, he knocked on the holly-decorated door and a maid answered.

The maid recognized him from his last visit right away. "Ah, Monsieur Phoebus! Do come in: the mistress has been waiting for you!" She took his hand and led him into the entrance hall, where she hung up his cloak and then led him into the parlor.

"Wait here, monsieur," she instructed, "I'll go fetch the mistress."

Phoebus took a seat on the velvet cushions of one of the chairs. He looked around the parlor – the only room he had seen on his last visit. Nothing had changed, except for the Christmas decorations that now trimmed the room. He soon rose from his seat and made his way to the garland-covered fireplace, above which hung a cherished family portrait painted nearly twenty-eight years ago.

In the center of the portrait sat a dark-haired woman holding an infant girl who was barely a year old in her lap. On the woman's left stood a 13-year-old girl with light brown hair pulled back in a neat bun and a proud expression, and on the woman's left stood a 9-year-old girl with curly black hair and a wide smile. And behind the woman stood a tall fair-haired man with a gruff expression holding an infant boy, barely a year old.

Phoebus thought about how much he had studied that picture when he was young. It was the only record of what his deceased father looked like. How often had he hoped to get some memory back, all in vain. He knew every detail of the portrait by heart, but the man in the back might as well have been a stranger from a faraway land. He knew this was his father, but he'd never felt any real inner connection to the man in the painting. But then again, he'd never felt any real inner connection to the baby the man was holding, either.

"Phoebus?" He turned to find an old woman with silver-streaked black hair and narrow blue eyes standing in the doorway. Despite her age and her arthritic legs, the woman stood tall and proud. She often wore a stern expression, but at moments like this it would melt away and be replaced by a warm smile. Her bad legs ment she needed a cane to help her walk, but people often forgot that. Indeed, many said Annette de Chateaupers' carried her cane as lightly as a young adventurer would carry his walking stick.

They were right. At a moment like this it was particularly difficult to believe she didn't have full use of her legs. She practically ran up to her son and gathered him in a tight hug.

"Mother," Phoebus murmured, hugging her back.

After a lingering moment, Annette pulled back to examine her son's face. "I still can't get over how much you've grown," she said, kissing his cheek.

"Neither can I," said Phoebus, gazing down at the face he once gazed up at. "Come dear, follow me," said Annette, "Your brother and sisters are waiting for you in the dining hall."

The mother led the son up a flight of steps and down a long hallway. He couldn't pay any attention to the holiday decor, or the numerous paintings on the walls, or the fine furniture, no, not with the thought that the siblings whom he hadn't seen since he was a boy were waiting for him. _I'm coming, Minerva!_ he thought. The familiar image of that spunky little girl with the beautiful blue eyes danced around in his head. She would be a woman now, of course, but he had no doubt that his twin would still have her same spunk.

Finally Annette opened the doors to the large dining hall. Three women and three men rose from their seats to greet the mistress and the guest.

Then there was absolute silence. The people at the table exchanged great stares with their brother. It sank into everyone's heads that twenty years had passed since their last encounter. And yet, somehow, Phoebus had a pretty sure feeling who everyone was.

The woman on the end couldn't be anyone but Diana: her brown hair was still up in a neat bun, and her nose still hung in the air with a haughty expression. Next to Diana stood her husband, Eric, whom she had married soon before Phoebus joined the army. The woman on Eric's other side was definitely Thalia. Her black curls still bounced around her shoulders, and she still wore a wide grin. Phoebus reasoned the man next to her must be Luke, the man Annette had been trying to persuade Thalia to marry. Apparently she succeeded.

Next to Luke, Ulysses still appeared as shy and timid as he was at five years old. On his left stood a heavily pregnant woman whom Phoebus didn't recognize. He reasoned his little brother must have gotten married, most likely at his mother's insistence.

Though much time had gone by, personalities hadn't changed. Like her usual dominating self, Diana was the one to break the silence.

"It is so good to see you again, Phoebus!" she said with a smile, "How we've missed you!" She turned to the man next to her. "You remember Eric, do you not?"

"Yes I do, Diana," said Phoebus.

"And I remember you," sneered Eric, eyeing his brother-in-law, "The little boy who hid our wedding rings in the cooking pot!"

"Well I'm beyond that now," assured Phoebus.

"I should hope so!" said Thalia, "I never did get that dress fixed, you know!"

"I know," grinned Phoebus. He turned to the man next to her. "Ah, did Mother finally convince you to marry Luke?"

"Yes, and for your information, we are very happy together!" said Luke. He turned to his wife. "Aren't we, my dear?"

"Yes honey, we are," said Thalia.

"You haven't settled down yet, have you, Phoebus?" asked Diana.

"No," said Phoebus, "Not _yet_."

"Ah, but you should!" said Diana, "It would do you a world of good. I don't know how I'd survive without Eric and our fine children."

"Children?" asked Phoebus with a raised brow.

Diana glared at him. "You really haven't been kept up to date on the family's status, have you?"

She looked down. "Come on sweetie, you know it's improper to hide under tables. Come on out and meet your uncle."

A little girl of about nine slowly peeked out from under the table. Diana coaxed the girl to her feet and turned her to face Phoebus.

"Rachel," Diana said to the girl, "this is your uncle, Phoebus. You haven't met him because he joined the army before you were born." She turned to Phoebus. "This is your niece, Rachel."

Rachel silently looked up at him for a moment, then her head darted to the floor. "Forgive her," Diana said, annoyed, "She's shy of strangers."

"I understand," said Phoebus. He knelt down next to the girl and smiled. "Hello Rachel," he said gently.

Rachel wouldn't answer.

Phoebus persisted. "I'm your uncle, Phoebus."

Still no answer.

He tried one last time. "It means 'sun god.'"

The girl finally spoke. "My mother's the moon goddess," she said timidly.

"I know," said Phoebus, "That's why we're related."

"She's also the goddess of the hunt," Rachel continued, "Although I don't see why: she never goes hunting! Father's taken me hunting a few times. I suppose you go hunting a lot, since you're a soldier. Mother's told me about you. Were you really Captain of the Guard?"

"Yes indeed I was," said Phoebus. He offered his hand. "How about it, would you like to shake hands with a captain?"

Rachel laughed and shook her uncle's hand, then he rose to his feet.

"Goodness, you have a way with children!" exclaimed Thalia, "My three boys always drive me mad!"

"And where are your boys?" asked Phoebus.

"They're in the other room with their nanny," explained Thalia, "They're too young to eat with the adults."

Phoebus turned to Diana. "What about your other children?" he asked, "Are they also with their nanny?"

"Oh no," said Diana, "My only other child is Jonah, and he's sixteen years old."

"Then where is he?"

"Unfortunately, Jonah is unable to be with us," explained Diana, "He's been enlisted in the army."

"Yes," said Rachel, "My brother's a soldier like you!"

Phoebus hid his disappointment.

"I don't have any children yet," said Ulysses, speaking for the first time. He took the hand of the woman next to him. "But my Danielle is in her seventh month!"

Danielle just giggled.

Phoebus silently surveyed the room again. An uneasy feeling built up. Someone was missing.

"Where is Minerva?" he asked.

A collective gasp went through the room. Everyone stared at him with horrified faces.

"You...you haven't heard?" Thalia said faintly.

"Haven't heard what?"

"Phoebus," Annette said suddenly, "can I talk to you privately?" Without waiting for an answer, she took her son's hand and led him out of the room.

"What's this all about?" Phoebus said with distress.

Annette sat him down on a bench in the hallway. "Phoebus..." she said hesitantly, "there was something I meant to...to tell you on our last visit...but I couldn't bring myself to say it."

Phoebus pushed all alarms out of his head and glared at his mother. "Where is Minerva?" he demanded in a steady voice.

Annette took a deep breath and looked into her son's eyes.

"She died ten years ago."


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Again, extremely old chapter. It DOES get better later on.

"Second Chances"

by EsmeAmelia

Chapter 5

In the dark chambers of the Palace of Justice, with a roaring fire blazing in his hearth, and a bottle of wine on his desk, Jehan Frollo sat listening to the news his Captain was delivering.

"The gypsy woman has been baptized, Your Honor," the Captain reported, "She must be attempting to lead you astray; that would be my bet! I certainly wouldn't want be her when she faces the Lord!" He laughed at the notion. "She may be able to save her skin doing this, but she certainly can't save her soul!"

Jehan raised his hand to quiet him. "Nothing changes. Guilt is guilt." He took a sip of wine.

"From what I've heard, sir, she's being shunned by even the other gypsies! I wonder, are they not in on her plan? Perhaps this is the first in a whole string of Gypsy conversions!"

"Plan or no plan, she'll be brought to justice!" Jehan said firmly, but with a slight slur.

"Do you suppose she feels guilty about Claude, and that's why she's done this?" wondered the Captain.

"A creature with inability to feel anything certainly can't feel remorse," Jehan said with a greater slur as he took another sip of wine. "She thinks she can fool God as well as escape with blood on her hands, the damn fool. Claude knew what poison she was, and he would have done the world a service if she hadn't gotten him first! So help me, that wretch shall burn!"

His voice had grown quite fierce during these last few sentences. The Captain thought it would be best to retreat from the room – before he angered the Minister even more. Jehan pounded his fists on the table after his guard left. He might have shouted after the soldier had he not noticed his glass was empty.

He poured himself another serving of wine.

. . . . . . .

Annette knew Phoebus must be devastated.

He hadn't shown it. As Annette told him about how a high fever killed Minerva nearly ten years before, not a single tear had crossed his eye. He'd stared blankly, as if he refused to accept what he was hearing. He barely ate anything at dinner and wouldn't speak to anyone, then after dinner he told Annette he was tired from his journey and wanted to go to bed early.

A sure sign that the army had done a good job teaching him not to be emotional, thought Annette. She considered the ability to shun emotions to be a valuable character trait, thus she applauded her son's lack of expression.

Still, she wanted to offer her son some comfort and assurance on her way to her bedroom: no mother likes seeing her child depressed, even her adult child. She opened the door to her guest room and found Phoebus lying in bed with his breath slow and his eyes closed, yet not sleeping. She set her candle on the nightstand, then she sat on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers through his hair.

"Phoebus honey, are you awake?" she whispered.

He opened his eyes slightly and gazed solemnly up at his mother, revealing a hint of tears.

"You don't have to say anything," said Annette, "I know perfectly well how much Minerva meant to you. I could see the bond between you and her every day of your lives." She sighed. "Well, every day of your lives until you left us. She missed you something awful after that."

Annette wasn't accustomed to giving counseling speeches, but Phoebus seemed to be giving approval, for he lifted his head a few inches off the pillow to listen.

"This is very hard on you," she continued, "but you will be able to move on."

He'd heard these words many times before and knew they spoke the truth, but they made nothing easier. This certainly wasn't his first encounter with death. Countless times in the army had he formed close friendships with his fellow soldiers, and then those fellow soldiers been killed in battle. Death was common on the battlefield, and a soldier always had to be prepared for it. But still, no one on the front ever had a blood connection to him.

Annette gently set his head back on the pillow, then she wrapped the covers around his neck and kissed his cheek, as if he were still a little boy. "Get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning. And if you want to talk about it, I'm in the first bedroom on the end. I'll listen to whatever you have to say." With that, she rose from the bed and left the room.

Phoebus closed his eyes, although he was certain he'd never sleep. Fatigued as he was, sleep seemed impossible in the midst of this grief. He thought about his mother's words. Like a small child, he felt like his mother would make everything right with her unconditional love.

Perhaps it was that thought which allowed him to eventually forget about Minerva for a while and slip into empty, thoughtless darkness.

. . . . . . . .

Echoing through the mighty walls of Notre Dame's sanctuary, a female voice could be heard singing with such joy and exuberance that if people had been around, they would have surely stopped to listen.

_"The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown, of all the trees that are in the woods, the holly bears the crown!"_

The voice did not belong to any choir singer, but rather to a young gypsy woman who was helping to decorate the church for Christmas. Esmeralda danced around the pews with a bundle of holly in her arms. She continued singing as she arranged the holly around the sanctuary. Within a few moments, a young male voice could be heard joining her.

_"Oh, the rising of the sun, and the running of the deer. The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir!"_

Quasimodo skipped over to Esmeralda with a bundle of holly in his arms. They continued singing together as they decorated the sanctuary.

_"The holly bears a berry, as red as any blood_

_And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ_

_To do poor sinners good  
>Oh, the rising of the sun<em>

_And the running of the dear_

_The playing of the merry organ_

_Sweet singing in the choir!"_

At this point they burst into laughter when they realized how silly they probably looked.

"You learn the carols fast," said Quasimodo after he caught his breath.

"Thank you," said Esmeralda with a smile. She continued humming the song as she arranged the holly. Her moods had quite changed since her baptism. She was now almost always joyful, and her eyes sparked with that same energy Quasimodo had seen on the first morning.

"So Quasimodo," she said after a few minutes, "are you excited about your first Christmas out of the tower?"

"Not as excited as you are about your first Christmas since you've been reborn!" said Quasimodo, "Don't deny it: it's written all over you. And you have no need to deny it: you have a right to be excited!"

"Do you see me denying it?" Esmeralda almost squealed, "I couldn't deny it if I wanted to!"

"Okay then, let's feed that anticipation," grinned Quasimodo, "After we finish this, how would you like to help me decorate the tower?"

"How about it, Djali?" Esmeralda asked.

Although Djali didn't seem particularly interested, Esmeralda immediately stated that they would love to help.

"Well don't let him eat anything!" joked Quasimodo, "Remember, you still owe me some new sheep!"

Esmeralda laughed, but quickly hushed herself when she saw the Archdeacon entering the sanctuary.

"How are you two coming along?" he asked.

"We're almost finished," said Quasimodo.

"You've done a marvelous job," beemed the Archdeacon.

"It's Esmeralda who deserves most of the credit," said Quasimodo, extending his arm to Esmeralda.

"Quasimodo, please," muttered Esmeralda with a scrunched face, "I didn't do that much."

The Archdeacon put his arm around her. "For someone who hasn't done that much, it sure looks like you've done a lot. And I don't mean just with decorations."

Esmeralda couldn't think of anything to say except "I am honored that you would allow me to help prepare your church for Christmas."

"No, I am the one who is honered to have you here," the Archdeacon smiled. He touched her cheek and left.

"He is right to consider himself honored," said Quasimodo.

"Quasi, _please,_" Esmeralda said through her teeth, then quickly added "Didn't you want me to help you decorate the tower?"

"Oh, yes," said Quasimodo, "Come on, follow me."

"I know the way," said Esmeralda.

The two friends ascended up the many steps to the tower. Or rather, one ascended regularly while the other flew. When Quasimodo got up to the tower, Esmeralda was already seated at the table waiting to get started.

"Eager, aren't we?" teased Quasimodo.

"Maybe a bit," grinned Esmeralda.

"Well, stay where you are," said Quasimodo, "We can start on the village." He reached behind a statue and pulled out a small box.

"Every year I would observe how the citizens decorated their houses and I'd try to recapture it in my village," he explained as he set the box on the table, "But now that I've seen it from the ground, I find that I've been off on a few things."

"Like what?" asked Esmeralda.

"Well, for example," said Quasimodo, pointing to the window of a house, "I always thought that the woman who lives here put up garlands in her windows. It turns out she actually puts up green curtains. And here.." He pointed to another house. "This family puts up wreaths on their door that I never noticed."

"You've done a good job rebuilding the city since Frollo destroyed it," said Esmeralda.

"It's not as good as it used to be," said Quasimodo, "Now I carve wood merely as a hobby, but then...then I carved wood because I _had_ to. It was one of my escapes. Back when I knew nothing but isolation, this was my world. It was the only community I had, thus every detail had to be perfect. But now...now my world has expanded. This little model is now just that: a little model of a bigger city, thus my passion for making it perfect isn't a strong."

"Well I wouldn't have noticed," said Esmeralda. She reached into the box and pulled out a tiny garland made of dried holly leaves. "Where does this go?"

"Be careful with that," said Quasimodo, "It goes around the roof of Notre Dame." He took the garland from her and gently draped it around Notre Dame's roof. "I have to replace most of my garlands every year, but this one has lasted a good three years."

Esmeralda smiled admiringly at the city. "Quasi..." she asked after a few minutes, "...what was Christmas like with Frollo?"

"Nothing like this, that's for sure," said Quasimodo.

"Tell me," said Esmeralda.

Quasimodo thoughtfully closed his eyes. "He would sometimes help me decorate the tower, but not like how you are helping me now. We wouldn't laugh or have warm conversations. I don't think that man ever laughed. While he helped me decorate, he would go over lessons with me. Or he might talk to me about how at this time of year I should give thanks for how fortunate I am."

"Fortunate?" Esmeralda exclaimed, "The..." she almost said "bastard," but decided against it on account of where she was and what time of year it was, "...the brute! He imprisons you and treats you no better than a slave and then tells you to be thankful for how fortunate you are?"

"Because he took me in and gave me food and shelter," said Quasimodo, "Otherwise I would have died."

"Otherwise your mother would still be alive and you would be with us, a free man!" Esmeralda said bitterly.

"Or maybe I would have been driven out of Gypsy society!" argued Quasimodo, "There's no way of telling what might have happened."

Esmeralda sighed. "I think you still haven't gotten over Frollo."

"What makes you say that?" said Quasimodo.

"You still feel loyalty toward him," said Esmeralda, "And you would rather live here in your old prison than with me and the other gypsies."

Quasimodo sighed. "Esmeralda, we've been through this. This isn't just my old prison: this is my home. I belong here. You yourself said I was lucky to have all this space to myself!"

"I know," said Esmeralda, "but you are still one of us by blood. Besides...I would have liked to have you living with us."

"Like I said before, it was gracious of you to offer, but this is where I belong," said Quasimodo. "Anyway, on Christmas Day we would share a feast. Not a huge feast, but a good deal larger than my regular meals. We would talk about various things. Indeed, I think he talked more on Christmas than any other day. He seemed a bit more open on Christmas, like...I don't know...maybe even he could be touched on that blessed day..."

"Or maybe you're imagining things because you still feel loyalty toward him!" said Esmeralda.

Quasimodo sighed again. "I don't know what to think. You don't understand what it's like to call someone 'master' for your whole life. It was all I knew. I never saw the other side. Even now, after I've known you, after I found out he killed my mother, after he tried to kill you, even after he tried to kill me, I still feel like...like...I don't know. My anger at him still burns, and I don't know if I'll ever get over it, but at the same time I feel...I wouldn't call it loyalty, but I feel like...like..." he couldn't find the right words.

"Well he is dead now, and you have a new life," said Esmeralda.

"I know, but I can't help thinking about him sometimes," said Quasimodo, "Occasionally I wonder what I would say to him if he came back."

"I know what I'd do," Esmeralda said with clenched fists, "I'd kill him so he'd be dead again!"

"Esmeralda?" exclaimed Quasimodo, "How could you say such a thing?"

"It's the truth," Esmeralda said coldly, "He has caused nothing but suffering. We are fortunate to be rid of him."

"Esmeralda, didn't your biblical studies teach you 'love your enemy'?" said Quasimodo.

Esmeralda narrowed her eyes. "I dare you to find one soul on earth who actually keeps that commandment!"

Quasimodo exhaled lightly. "I wonder what he would say about your decision."

"Nothing could have cleansed my image in his eyes," said Esmeralda harshly. "Let me tell you, it's a good thing he is dead, or else I wouldn't be able to convert because my heart would be too full of hatred for him!"

Quasimodo let out a whistle. "It sounds like I'm not the only one who hasn't gotten over Frollo."

Esmeralda lowered her head. "I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't be talking like this," she said, "I just get so angry at him.""

Believe me, I understand," said Quasimodo, "But we should both try to make peace with the past."

"I know," said Esmeralda, "And Frollo is dead, anyway."

"Jehan's still alive."

"Jehan," said Esmeralda with a tremble, "Please don't mention Jehan. I don't want to think about him right now. I won't be pursued at Christmastime, so please let me settle myself at least for now."

"All right," said Quasimodo, "Come on, we've got decorations to put up."

Neither of them mentioned Frollo again for the rest of the day.

. . . . .

"Quasi, where does this wreath go?"

"Hang it on the nail in that beam over there."

Esmeralda walked over to the beam and hung up the wreath. "This tower is looking as good as the city."

She then walked over to the model city. "And this city looks as good as the real thing."

She took the figure of herself and placed it in the square. "Will you be able to see me when I dance on Christmas Eve?"

"What do you mean?"

"The gypsies are having a celebration on Christmas Eve." She took the figure of Quasimodo and placed it next to the figure of herself. "You will come, won't you?

"Quasimodo shook his head. "I'd love to see you dance, but..." He took the figure of himself and placed it in the bell tower. "...I'll be needed here. Christmas Eve's the busiest night of the year for a bell-ringer."

Esmeralda looked at the figure in the tower with disappointment. "All right, I understand," she said, "I certainly don't want to keep you from your duties. But I'll be thinking about you when I hear the bells." She then reached behind a building, pulled out the figure of Phoebus, and placed it in the square next to the figure of herself. "Will you leave the decorations up for when he comes back?" she asked.

"That depends on when he comes back," said Quasimodo.

"He said he was staying until the New Year," said Esmeralda, "Would you leave the decorations up until then? He should see the tower like this."

"Well, I can't make any promises," said Quasimodo, "You can never predict when your greenery will go brown. But if all goes well, I'll certainly leave them up for him." "

Thank you," said Esmeralda. She gazed at the Phoebus figure. "Boy Phoebus," she muttered, "why on earth do you have a living mother?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Quasimodo.

"She's rich, don't you know?" said Esmeralda, "Rich people want their children to marry well. They want their children to marry nobility, not..." She gave a long sigh. "...not street performers who have to dance for coins."

"But Esmeralda, you saved his life!" said Quasimodo, "Surely his mother will want to show gratitude for that!"

"Showing gratitude is different from allowing marriage," said Esmeralda, "and even showing gratitude is unlikely. She probably thinks gypsies are poison, just like most every other person in the world." She looked at the Phoebus figure again. "Oh Phoebus, why couldn't you be an orphan?" She then turned to face Quasimodo. "I want you to know I can handle this," she said, "It won't ruin my life."

"Esmeralda," said Quasimodo, "don't give up so easily."

"I never said I was giving up," said Esmeralda, "I just..." then she realized how openly she had been talking all of a sudden. "...I-I mean...I...never mind." She turned sharply and walked over to the beams to hang up another wreath.

"Esmeralda," Quasimodo said softly, "you don't have to hide it from me. I know what you feel for him."

"What do you mean 'what I feel for him'?" Esmeralda said a little too quickly.

"Well, why would you worry about Phoebus's mother allowing him to marry you if you felt nothing for him?" Quasimodo said slyly.

An embarrassed look crept across Esmeralda's face.

Quasimodo gently touched her shoulder. "It's nothing to be ashamed about. He's a good choice for you."

"It was never willful," said Esmeralda, "If I were obeying my better judgment I would have nothing to do with him."

"So you would let him drown?" said Quasimodo.

"Let him drown?" Esmeralda almost shouted, "How dare you assume such a thing! My better judgment would still tell me to save his life!" Her voice grew soft. "It just wouldn't tell me to spend all my time thinking about him." She walked back to the table and fingered the Phoebus figure. "No one understands it. Not even Melenie understands it. I don't even understand it. I certainly never wanted this to happen, but he was just so...so..."

"Handsome?" Quasimodo said with a hint of sadness.

"I can't deny that he looked good," said Esmeralda, "but that wasn't it. I've seen many handsome men who were foolish and heartless. But Phoebus...I sensed from the very beginning that he was different...he was funny...interesting...and then I found out he was sincere and caring too. It was almost perfect...but then he turns out to be the son of a rich woman."

Quasimodo struggled to hide how her words were piercing his heart. How tempting it was to say something like "Well I'm available and I'm an orphan!" For a moment he actually considered saying that. Then he looked at Esmeralda-his dear sister Esmeralda. Her happiness was more important to him than anything. He could never offer her anything but support in what she wanted.

He looked into her eyes. "Phoebus loves you," he said, "Of this I am certain. Even if sharing a life is forbidden, you can at least rest assured that he loves you."

Esmeralda smiled at him. "Thank you for being such a good friend."

"It's all my pleasure," said Quasimodo, then he turned away and muttered to himself, "You're lucky that there's someone who loves you!"

Esmeralda had meanwhile shifted her attention back to the Phoebus figure. "Hmm..." she said, "...I wonder what Phoebus is doing now..."

. . . . . .

"How does this go again, Uncle Phoebus?"

"Squat down with your back against little Pierre's and link your fingers to his."

"Okay," said Rachel. She turned to her cousin little Pierre, Thalia's six-year-old son who bore his grandfather's name. "Come on, let's stand back to back, and when I say "now," we squat down!"

"I'm not so sure about this," said Pierre as he pressed his back against Rachel's.

"Oh come on, it'll be fun!" said Rachel, "Now!"

The two children squatted down and giggled as they struggled not to fall.

"I feel like a duck!" squealed Pierre.

"Link your fingers to mine," said Rachel.

"How?" said Pierre, "I can't even see you!"

"Now what?" Rachel asked between giggles.

"Now choose a topic and take turns saying words that have to do with that topic," explained Phoebus, "The winner is the last one to speak before you fall over!"

"Uh, how about you choose the topic the first time?" asked Pierre as he shifted his weight.

"Well, since it's Christmas, why not have the topic be Christmas?" suggested Phoebus.

"Okay," said Rachel, "I'll start. Holly!"

"Mistletoe!" said Pierre.

"Pudding!"

"Carols!"

"Yule log...whoa!" shouted Rachel as she lost her balance and fell, pulling Pierre down with her.

"I believe you win," said Phoebus.

Pierre laughed and scrambled to his feet. "That was great! I've never played that game before!"

"Well, that's because your aunt Minerva and I made that game up when we were about your age," said Phoebus.

"Aunt Minerva," said Rachel as she stood up, "I never got to know my aunt Minerva."

"She would have liked you," said Phoebus, "Well, at least I think she would have liked you. She was younger than you are when I last saw her. You remind me of her."

"Mother says you and Aunt Minerva almost ruined her wedding," said Rachel.

"Taking Diana and Eric's wedding rings and hiding them somewhere was her idea," said Phoebus, "I was merely the one who suggested putting them in the cooking pot!"

Rachel laughed. "I wish I could have been born to see that!"

"I don't think that would have been possible," said Phoebus.

"Well," said Rachel, "maybe when Jonah comes home from the wars he'll get married, and I could play that trick on him!"

"I don't think your brother would appreciate that."

Rachel grinned. "I guess not. Mother would give me a paddling, anyway."

"Minerva and I got paddlings all the time, and that didn't stop us!" said Phoebus."

Are you married, Uncle Phoebus?" asked Pierre, who hadn't really been listening to the conversation.

"No, I'm not," said Phoebus."

Well, maybe I could play that trick at your wedding!" Rachel said mischievously, "It would be more fun, actually, since in the last week I've gotten to know you quite a bit better than my brother. I barely remember him. I was only four when he joined the army."

Phoebus appeared surprised. "You're nine, right?"

"Right," said Rachel.

"And your brother is sixteen?"

"Yes," said Rachel.

"Then he was three years older than I was," sighed Phoebus. That thought seemed to hit him like a blow. He turned away suddenly and wiped his eye.

"Uncle Phoebus?" asked Pierre.

"Are you all right?" asked Rachel.

Phoebus turned back to look at them. "I'm fine..." he said, "...I was just thinking I could have used those three extra years."

"Are you jealous of my brother?"

"Maybe a little," said Phoebus. He walked across the room and sat down in a chair. "Three more years as a child sure would have been nice. And...it would have been three more years with Minerva."

Rachel walked up to him and gently touched his hand. "I was always told that I had an aunt and an uncle who were twins, and I hadn't met either of them because the uncle was in the army and the aunt was dead."

"It's so ironic," Phoebus said softly, "I remember one night a few days before I left she was crying in the middle of the night because she was afraid I'd be killed in battle. Who would have thought I'd outlive her?"

"It must be awful," said Rachel, "It probably feels like she died a child, even though you know she was eighteen."

"Still so young..." said Phoebus, "...and I never got to see her as a woman..."

Pierre didn't like seeing his uncle like this. "I think you should get married!" he suddenly exclaimed, "It would make you feel better!"

"Pierre?" shouted Rachel, "Don't you know that's extremely rude?"

Pierre hung his head in shame. "I'm sorry."

But Phoebus didn't seem at all offended. In fact, he grinned at the little lad. "So, you think I should get married?"

"Well..." Rachel said awkwardly, "...if you ever met the right woman for you, I think it could be good for you."

Phoebus looked down at his niece and nephew. "Can you two keep a secret?"

"_I_ can," said Rachel, "but I'm not sure about him."

"Yes, I can keep a secret!" said Pierre. He stood up as tall as he could make himself (which wasn't very) and gave a salute. "Anything you say, Captain!"

Phoebus laughed. "All right, you two. Come closer." He leaned over to whisper to the eager children.

"Let me tell you about what happened after I was summoned to Paris to serve as Captain of the Guard..."


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Well, a chapter full of Phoebus angst. Maybe someone's reading this.

"Second Chances"

By EsmeAmelia

Chapter 6

Late that evening, everyone was leisurely spending their time gathered around in the parlor. Diana was giving a lecture to Thalia, who was forced to listen because Hugh and Milton, her two-and-three-year-old sons, were asleep on her lap. Across the room, Eric and Luke were chatting over a bottle of wine. Rachel and Pierre were playing games on the floor, and Ulysses silently watched them as he sat next to his wife, who was knitting clothes for her unborn baby.

Phoebus sat in front of the fire with his face in a book that he wasn't reading, for his mind was still on Minerva, and also wondering if he really should have told the children about Esmeralda before he told his mother.

"Phoebus?"

He looked up to see that Annette had taken a seat next to him. "Mother, I'm reading," he said, and returned to the book.

"Reading?" said Annette, "You're the first person I've seen who reads with his eyes fixed!"

"Oh Mother, I'm ashamed of you," said Phoebus, "I'm twenty-eight years old and you never knew I read with my eyes fixed?"

Annette smirked at his remark. "All joking aside," she said, "I want to talk to you about very important issues."

"Is this about Minerva?"

"No," said Annette, "Now listen to me. I know you're heartbroken about your sister, but you need to move on with your own life. That's why I want to talk to you. You've had a fine career as a soldier."

"And that career is over," interrupted Phoebus, "I was forced into an early retirement, and now your son whom you expected so much from is embarking on a career as an assistant baker!"

"You helped to overthrow a corrupted leader, didn't you?" said Annette, "That's certainly enough to bring our family honor in my book!"

"The corrupted leader's almost-as-bad little brother took his place," said Phoebus.

"That's beside the point," said Annette. "You've had a fine career like your father before you. And now it's time to begin the next chapter of your life."

"Thank you for making me feel ten years older than I am," sneered Phoebus.

Annette rolled her eyes. "Please try to be serious for once. Your sisters and brother are all married and settled down. I consider a career to be a vital part of one's life, but a family is the cornerstone of everything."

"So you're saying...?"

"Phoebus, you're near to thirty years of age," continued Annette, "Quite a bit older than your siblings were, but not yet too old. Still, time waits for no one. Phoebus, it's long time to find you a wife."

Phoebus put the book down and looked at his mother. "You have no idea how much I've been waiting for you to say that."

"Ah," said Annette, "So, have you met a woman who strikes your fancy, or are you just feeling the loneliness of single life?"

He smiled. "The former."

Annette seemed especially pleased. "You've met someone? Well by all means, tell me about her! Is she of fine breeding?"

He gave an awkward expression. "I was afraid you'd ask that."

"What do you mean?" asked Annette.

"I don't know if she's of fine breeding or not. I don't know who her parents were. She's an orphan."

Annette tried to hide her disappointment. "Oh...well...tell me more about her."

"She's everything you could desire," murmured Phoebus, "Intelligent, kind, brave, skillful, athletic, beautiful..."

"Yes," said Annette, "But tell me _about_ her."

Meanwhile Rachel and Pierre had heard them talking. They crept closer to the fireplace, eager to hear what their grandmother would have to say about the news.

"Fine, I see you want cold facts instead of me gushing," said Phoebus. "Her name's Esmeralda - beautiful name, isn't it? I'd guess she's around twenty-five years old. She has this long thick black hair that bounces around her shoulders when she dances. And boy, can she dance! Anyway, she has an annoying little goat who butts away anyone he doesn't like. For a while I was one of them, but he gradually got to know me."

"How amusing," said Annette.

"Not so amusing when you've got horns running into your rear!" grinned Phoebus.

Rachel and Pierre struggled not to laugh. They continued spying as Phoebus proceeded to tell about how Esmeralda saved him from beheading and then from drowning, how she defended Quasimodo at the Festival of Fools, and how she led Quasimodo to freedom, but all the while he avoided saying Esmeralda was a gypsy.

"My goodness, I always wondered if those legends about the bell-ringer of Notre Dame were true!" said Annette, "Well, I thought my son had merely led a riot, but now it turns out that he encountered a legend as well!"

"Mother, it's no big deal."

"I take it, they didn't tell you those legends on the front," said Annette, "Anyway, this is an impressive story, but I have one question. Why was this woman so aggressive with Frollo from the start?"

"Who could blame her?" said Phoebus, "He viciously persecuted her people."

"Her people?" Annette inquired with a raised brow.

Phoebus hesitated. He wasn't sure how his mother felt about gypsies. He seemed to have some sort of memory of her not being too fond of them, but he couldn't remember the details.

"She's...a member of a group of travelers," he said carefully.

Annette's lip curled. "What kind of a group of travelers?"

Phoebus sighed. "No point in beating around the bush. She's a member of one of the lowest vagabond groups. The gypsies."

Now he expected Annette to give a disgusted face, or maybe hang her mouth open in shock.

What he hadn't expected was for her to scream so loudly that everyone in the room turned around.

"Mother!" Diana exclaimed.

"What happened?" shouted Thalia as she tried to hush her now-awake sons.

Annette breathed loudly for several long moments. "Phoebus..." she said after she sort of got her composure, "...you can't be serious!"

"What's this all about?" asked Ulysses.

"My son..." panted Annette, "...my son...he wants to run off with the gypsies!"

_Gypsies._ Phoebus hadn't heard that word spoken in such a disgusted tone since he heard Frollo say it.

"Oh my lord!" Diana exclaimed as she rushed to her mother's side. "Calm yourself, Mother," she said before shooting an angry glare at Phoebus.

Phoebus rose from his seat. "Mother, I knew you wouldn't be happy about this," he said, "but there's no need to react so strongly. Yes, she has no money, she's lived off the streets, she belongs to the lowest group in society, but..."

"You fool!" interrupted Annette, "This isn't about rank or money! Those people are killers!"

Phoebus gave her a blank look.

"Oh my goodness!" said Thalia, "Don't tell me you don't know what she's talking about!"

"Did the army brainwash you?" yelled Diana, "Don't you remember who killed your father?"

They were criminals, weren't they? Outlaws, right? Phoebus tried to stop a dim memory in the back of his head from surfacing and telling him what kind of outlaws they were.

"GYPSIES!" Annette screamed, "The GYPSIES killed your father!"

"They sought revenge for persecution by beating the Captain of the Guard to death!" snarled Diana.

A sickening feeling started to overcome Phoebus. He swayed slightly at the thought. At eight years old, the gypsies meant nothing to him. He didn't think about who killed his father then. But now, one of them meant everything to him.

By now everyone had rushed over to the fireplace, except Danielle, who told Ulysses she didn't want to get involved in this for fear of hurting the unborn baby, and Rachel and Pierre, who shrank behind a chair.

"He was a mere child then," said Thalia, "And a foolish one at that! No wonder he conveniently forgot!"

"Phoebus," Annette said, trying to stay calm, "I'm extremely disappointed in you. How could you even think of meddling with those evil ones?"

"So you don't care that she saved my life?" glared Phoebus.

For a moment Annette was silent. How utterly confusing it was that a member of the group who killed her husband saved her son! This ambivalence might have caused her to think again, had Diana not spoken up.

"You wouldn't have needed to be saved if it weren't for her!" growled Diana.

"She is still a gypsy!" added Thalia. "Her intentions could not have been pure! The reason she saved you was probably so she could use you for something later on!"

"Phoebus," Annette said firmly, "I'm offering you a decision. You have a chance to come back to us. Please, my son, do the right thing."

The right thing. Phoebus knew what she meant by "the right thing." He also knew what the consequences would be if he didn't do "the right thing." And he certainly couldn't say he wasn't shocked to hear that Esmeralda's people had murdered his father. An unpleasant memory of being tied and gagged with a noose around his neck, moments away from being lynched by the gypsies himself, came into his head. (How glad he was that he didn't tell his mother about that!) But unlike his father, he had a savior. His Esmeralda, who stepped in and stopped the killings.

"Mother..." he said, "...please try to understand."

"There is nothing to understand," Annette said coldly. "I will have nothing to do with those who murdered my husband."

"But Mother..."

"Phoebus, listen to me," said Annette, "I don't want to have to dismiss one of my own children. Please, don't turn away from us."

The mother and son looked at each other for a long moment, each silently begging the other to understand. But there would be no giving in on either side.

"Mother..." Phoebus finally said, his voice in a whisper, "...my heart stands where my heart stands."

Annette stared at him with an exasperated expression, unable to believe what she was hearing.

"YOU ASS!" she suddenly yelled. She leapt to her feet and bared her teeth at her son. "MY OWN SON TURNED AGAINST ME!" She attempted to lunge at Phoebus, but without the aid of her cane, her weak legs could not support her body. With a great thrust she stumbled to the floor, crying out in pain and anguish.

"MOTHER!" Diana, Thalia, and Ulysses screamed in unison. Total confusion broke out as they all scrambled to help Annette up. Thalia's little sons were wailing so loudly that they echoed throughout the room, and Thalia was trying to comfort them while at the same time she was struggling to help her mother. Rachel and Pierre were nowhere to be seen.

"Insolence!" yelled Diana.

"Betrayer!" yelled Thalia.

Ulysses said nothing as he helped Annette back into her seat, but he shot an angry look at Phoebus.

"You had your chance!" Annette hollered, "And you know the consequences! Your poor father is weeping to see what you have done to us! It pains me to do this, but if you insist on meddling with those gypsies, I can no longer call you my son!"

Phoebus stared at her in silence. What else could he do when the face of the woman who gave birth to him was now staring at him with hatred?

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" Annette screamed. "You may have one more night here, but tomorrow, GET OUT! AND NEVER COME BACK! Go off and marry your damned gypsy!"

Phoebus lowered his brows. "Well Merry Christmas to you too..._Annette!_" he snapped. He turned sharply and stormed upstairs.

. . . . . .

Phoebus sat on the edge of his bed in total darkness. He hadn't bothered to light a fire or even a candle, and out the window thick clouds covered the moon. He didn't care. What good would light do when he felt such darkness in his heart?

He rose and pulled the covers down, like he was about to climb into bed, then suddenly tears overcame him and he collapsed across the bed. Tears flowed from his eyes for several long moments, without him doing a thing to stop them.

At last the agony exhausted him and drove him into a deep, troubled sleep.

. . . . .

Annette carried a candle down the long, dark hallway to her bedroom. She certainly had no intention of stopping at one of her guest rooms on the way; indeed, she wanted to stay as far away from that door as possible, but a soft moan caught her ears from inside the room. The sound seemed to call out to her and steer her feet toward the door. She unconsciously opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was pitch-black dark, and gravely silent. The only light came from her one tiny candle, and the only sounds were her footsteps and her cane scraping across the floor. No wait, those weren't the only sounds. As Annette moved closer to the bed, she thought she caught the sound of someone breathing. She took another step and yes: she could easily detect the slow, even breathing of a sleeping person.

A shadowy figure lay slumped across the bed. There was no question in Annette's mind as to who the figure was, but still she hesitated to look. She would probably rather see the face of a goblin than the face of the one who betrayed her

.She might have turned away now if the figure hadn't moaned again. Once more did she lose voluntary control of her body to the sound of that voice. By reflex action, she shined her candle over the figure.

Yes, it was Phoebus, stretched lengthwise across the bed, sound asleep. He was fully dressed, but other than that he had no means of warmth or comfort, neither physically nor emotionally. The sight of him shivering caused Annette to take pity on him. No matter what they might have done, no one deserves to sleep coverless on such a cold night.

She placed her candle on the nightstand and carefully removed his shoes. Then she took a pillow and gently slid it under his head so he'd have something to rest on. He groaned slightly, almost causing her to whisper words of comfort to him. But she remained silent as she wrapped the covers around her son, in the same manner as she once tucked in her little boy so long ago.

Annette sat down on the edge of the bed and gazed down at her son's face glowing in the candlelight. Even with his closed eyes, his expression was very clear. The tough army captain now looked so vulnerable, so childlike, so in need of comfort. Comfort. Something Annette could no longer offer him. She reached out to touch his cheek, and her hand grew wet with his tears. The feeling of his tears caused Annette to struggle to hold back her tears.

Annette had no idea how many hours she was spending sitting there watching Phoebus sleep, but she could not bring herself to move. Memories kept dancing around in her head.

Memories of a tiny infant drinking from her breast.

Memories of cuddling a toddler in her lap.

Memories of chasing after a misbehaving five-year-old.

Memories of a child being taken away from her.

Memories of being joyously reunited with a grown man.

She gazed down at Phoebus. "This is your son," an internal voice kept saying. "This is your SON!"

Tears filled up Annette's eyes as she gazed at her son who had betrayed her. Another image came into her head: the image of her beloved husband being attacked and killed by the gypsies.

"Oh, my Pierre," she whispered, "I will not let these emotions turn me away from you. I will not mingle with those who took you away from me!" She gave her son one last glance, fearing that if she looked at him much longer she would let this sorrow interfere with what had to be done.

It took every bit of willpower Annette had to force herself to rise from the bed and head toward the door. As she turned the knob, she heard Phoebus moan yet again, still calling out to her for comfort.

She covered her ears and left the room, leaving her son alone.

. . . . .

The next morning, Phoebus was awakened by the sound of footsteps. He opened his eyes to find a maid entering the room, carrying a tray.

"Good morning, monsieur," she said as she placed the tray on a table. "Did you sleep well? I brought you some breakfast."

He found her cheery attitude quite annoying after the night before. He yawned and pulled the covers over his head in a vain attempt to drown out her humming.

"Cold night, was it?" said the maid. "It must have been, since you slept with all your clothes on!"

"Go away," Phoebus muttered from under the covers, but it occurred to him that he did indeed have all his clothes on, except for his shoes. Instantly he was reminded of last night's agony alone in the dark. Then he wondered why he was covered, for he thought he remembered falling asleep across the bed.

"What were you thinking last night: sleeping without covers?" said the maid. "Good thing the mistress covered you, or else you might have frozen!"

"Just like her," Phoebus mumbled. "Just like her to say 'You're banned from the family and I'll hate you forever, but here are some blankets so you don't freeze to death!'" He got out of bed and made his way toward the table. "I assume this tray means I'm banned from breakfast too?"

"Eh, yes," said the maid, "and the mistress would like you to leave as soon as possible."

"Is today soon enough for her?"

"Sooner than that would be better," said the maid.

"Well she'll have to settle for today."

"Please, don't take it too personally," said the maid, "She also wants all her guest rooms to be redecorated. New curtains, new tablecloths, even the sheets off the beds are being replaced. With you leaving today, I can get this room stripped before Christmas."

"Well good going for you," sneered Phoebus. He looked over at the bed with its bright satin sheets. "They look like they're in perfectly good condition. Why on earth does she want to get rid of the sheets?"

"So she can bring in new ones," said the maid, "I swear I'll never understand her."

"What are you going to do with the old sheets?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea," said the maid. "Maybe I'll give them to someone who could find a use for them."

As Phoebus looked at the bright satin sheets, an idea came into his head. "So...do you know of anyone who could find a use for those sheets?"

"No, no one," said the maid.

He grinned slightly. "Well...what would you say if I told you I could find a use for those sheets?"

"Uh, I think I'd say 'Please do so! Take them out of my hands!'"

Phoebus turned around and faced the maid, beginning to feel a bit more like his old self.

"I think I can find a use for those old sheets!"

. . . . .

Phoebus carried his bags into the parlor for one last look at the only room he had seen on his previous visit to his mother's house. The morning had been spent alone, packing for the trip home.

Annette had refused to say goodbye.

He walked over to the fireplace for a final glance at the beloved family portrait. The man, killed by gypsies. The woman, hardened from it. The baby girl, dead. The baby boy, banished. He wondered if Annette would try to have the baby boy painted out, now that he was no longed a member of the family.

He gazed up at the man holding the baby. This was his father, but he'd never felt any real inner connection. No connection at all. The man who had been murdered when he was two years old was a mere story. In total honesty, he couldn't even comprehend having a father. Yet this total stranger had caused his whole family to turn against him.

"Forgive me, Father," he whispered.

The family Bible sat on the mantle underneath the portrait. For some reason Phoebus felt an urge to take the Bible and start flipping through the pages (hoping he wouldn't run into the part about "Honor thy father and thy mother.") He stopped at the inside front cover, where his father had written the names and birthdates of all the children. He gazed at his own name in his father's handwriting.

_Phoebus de Chateaupers', born 10 August, 1454._

Underneath his name, the same handwriting had written down his sister's name.

_Minerva de Chateaupers', born 10 August, 1454._

Then something had changed since he last saw it. Something had been inserted directly under Minerva's name, in a different handwriting.

_Died, December 1472._

He promptly shut the Bible and placed it back on the mantle.

"So..you're leaving today?"

He turned around to find Ulysses standing in the doorway. "Yes," he said, "I'll be out of your hair soon."

"Well...could you spare a few minutes before you go?" asked Ulysses, "I'd like to talk to you."

Phoebus eyed his little brother. "Sure, I'm in no hurry to leave this place forever."

"Thank you," said Ulysses as he entered the room. He took a long stare at his older brother. "Forgive me," he said, "but I hardly remember you."

"Well, you were only five when I left," said Phoebus.

"Yes," said Ulysses, "I remember Minerva, though. Quite a character she was."

"Please don't talk about her," said Phoebus, "The thought of her sneering at me is too much."

"But I have to," said Ulysses, "There's something about her I think you should know. Mother didn't want you to know for your own good, but now I think she doesn't care what happens to you."

Phoebus sighed. "All right, what is it?"

"I don't think Minerva's dead."

Phoebus stopped short, his eyes widening. "Wha...what did you say?"

"I don't think Minerva's dead," said Ulysses. He paused for a moment. "Well...maybe she is dead...I don't know. Or maybe she's alive...that's possible too. But it wasn't a fever, I know that. Mother told you it was a fever so you wouldn't go looking for her. But it wasn't a fever. We don't know what happened to her. She just disappeared. Maybe she was kidnapped or she ran away or something. But it wasn't a fever."

Phoebus stared at him. "Are you telling the truth?"

"Yes," said Ulysses, "I think you have a right to know. Maybe...maybe if she's still alive, maybe someday you'll meet again."

"Wishful thinking," said Phoebus, "But you're right, I should know if there's a chance that she's still alive." He turned around and stared up at the portrait.

Ulysses also looked at the portrait. "One thing I do remember," he said, "I would always ask why I wasn't in the picture, and you and Minerva would always laugh and say 'You weren't born yet!'"

"Well look at us: we were barely born then ourselves!" said Phoebus, pointing at the infants in the portrait.

"Such is the way of children: to brag about something they don't remember," said Ulysses. He cleared his throat. "Father died before I was born, and when you were barely born. Do you remember him?"

Phoebus shook his head. "No, not at all. I don't even dream about him."

"So we both feel the same thing for our father," said Ulysses. "Nothing."

"Nothing," Phoebus repeated. "When I didn't even remember who killed him, that just goes to show how loyal I am."

"I've never met any gypsies," said Ulysses, "I don't know what they're like. I only know that they tell fortunes and dance and perform heathen arts. And they killed Father, of course." He looked at his brother. "So maybe I'm not fit to judge them. I'm not sure how I feel about this, but I wish you the best of luck."

"Thank you," said Phoebus.

Ulysses smiled at him.

"Uncle Phoebus?"

Both men turned around to find Rachel standing in the doorway with a worried expression. She walked up to Phoebus and looked up at him. "Are you leaving?"

"Yes," said Phoebus, "and I'm probably never coming back."

"So I'll never see you again?" said Rachel.

Phoebus gazed down at his niece. "Well, why would you want to?" he said. "I've betrayed everyone, remember? I'm collaborating with evil gypsies!"

Rachel sighed. "I thought Gramma would be happy to hear about Esmeralda. She didn't kill my grandfather. Why couldn't Gramma see that?"

"Because your Gramma's been badly hurt," said Phoebus, "Last night I opened up an old wound of hers. I can't say I don't understand why she did this."

"Esmeralda sounds nice," said Rachel. "I'd like to meet her, especially now that she's going to be my aunt."

"You'd like her," said Phoebus.

"I will meet her someday," Rachel promised to herself. "Maybe I'll even meet Quasimodo. I'm really interested in him!" She paused for a moment. "Will you be all right without inheritance or family support?"

Phoebus smiled at her. "Don't worry about me. Your uncle's been through the wars: he can handle anything that comes his way!"

Rachel laughed.

Phoebus patted the girl on the head. "Take care of yourself, young lady," he said, "Grow up to be a better person than your grandmother."

Rachel hugged her uncle. "Goodbye," she whispered.

. . . . . .

"Come on, Achilles," Phoebus said as he mounted onto his horse, "Let's go home."

As Achilles galloped away, Phoebus never once looked back at his mother's house. Even with an inheritance cut off, a dead and/or missing twin sister, and a family turned against him, his eyes were pointed straight ahead. If his years as a soldier had taught him anything, it was how to move on from setbacks.

"Achilles, get me home as fast as you can," said Phoebus. "A new life is waiting for us in Paris."

Now the only question that remained was whether or not the new life would say yes.

. . . . .

It was Christmas Eve, and all the gypsies were celebrating yet again. Another bonfire was lit, the musicians played joyously, and the dancers whirled around in bliss. Clopin had a puppet wagon set up close to the fire, where he was giving Christmas-themed puppet shows to the children who gathered around.

In the group of dancers, no one had more energy than Esmeralda. She moved with even more exuberance than she had on the previous celebration, with her black hair bouncing around her shoulders, her cape blowing in the wind around her, and her tambourine calling out to celebrate this joyous night. The passerby gave generous amounts into her hat, again safely guarded by her little goat.

Behind the crowd of people, one man's heart was beating more wildly than the drums played by the gypsies. Phoebus took one deep breath after another in an attempt to calm himself. He was so glad the other spectators blocked his view of the dancers: otherwise he might not be able to contain himself. After a few moments, he elbowed his way through the crowd to the puppet wagon to see the Gypsy King.

"Oh my, look!" Clopin made a man puppet say, "The ex Captain of the Guard is here!"

"Oh no," he made a woman puppet say, "Could this be another surprise attack?"

"If it is, don't worry, my love!" he made the man puppet say, "We've got the gallows ready for unwanted visitors!"

"Oh, very funny," said Phoebus, "That was so funny I forgot to laugh. Listen Clopin, I wish to see Esmeralda."

"What did the ex Captain just say?" said the woman puppet.

"He wants to see Esmeralda," said the man puppet.

"Oh, but doesn't he know she's busy entertaining for our celebration?" said the woman puppet.

"I don't know," said the man puppet, "I'll go ask him!" Clopin stuck the man puppet in Phoebus's face. "Don't you know Esmeralda is busy entertaining for our celebration? Go away, you silly soldier!"

"That's_ ex_ silly soldier to you!" said Phoebus, "Now Clopin, I'm serious, I want to see Esmeralda!"

"He won't go away!" said the man puppet.

"Well why don't you hit him with something?" said the woman puppet.

"Good idea!" said the man puppet. Clopin again stuck the man puppet in Phoebus's face, "You hear me? Go away or I will have to get rough!"

"I WILL NOT TALK TO YOUR SILLY PUPPETS!" shouted Phoebus.

"Oh, the Captain is getting angry!" said the man puppet.

"Looks like we'll have to drive him out the hard way!" said the woman puppet. "I'll go get the big stick!"

"Oooh, now things are going to get exciting!" said the man puppet.

The children in the audience were giggling loudly and had just started cheering the puppets on, but fortunately for Phoebus, Esmeralda had heard the commotion and had left the group of dancers to investigate.

"What on earth is going on?" she exclaimed, "Phoebus? What are you doing back here?"

"It's a long story," said Phoebus.

"He's planning another attack on our people!" Clopin made the woman puppet say.

"Well don't worry," said Esmeralda, grinning at the puppet. "This man isn't a spy: he's our friend!"

"Why didn't he say so?" said the man puppet.

"Probably because you didn't give him the chance," said Esmeralda.

"Ah, well if Esmeralda says it, it must be so!" said the woman puppet, "Welcome to our Christmas celebration, Captain!"

Phoebus rolled his eyes.

Esmeralda turned to face him. "You do what you have to to handle our King," she grinned.

"How amusing," said Phoebus. He turned to Clopin. "Well, now that the puppet show's over, could Esmeralda and I have permission to take leave? I have something I want to discuss with her."

Clopin faced Phoebus in the eye. "Why? What's so important that it can't wait until after the celebration?"

"Something intimate," said Phoebus.

"Phoebus!" said Esmeralda with a glare.

"Intimate, is it?" said Clopin. "Well what does Esmeralda have to say about it?"

Esmeralda looked at Phoebus, then at Clopin. "I say...all right. We have something to discuss."

Clopin growled. "Well then, leave already!"

"Look, I'm sorry..." Esmeralda began.

"I said to LEAVE!" demanded Clopin.

Esmeralda shrugged and turned to Phoebus. "Come on, let's do as he says. Don't worry: he'll get over it." She took his hand and led him away. "We should probably go to a more suitable setting for this, anyway."

. . . . . .

Some say the streets of Paris on Christmas Eve is the most beautiful atmosphere known to the world. Candlelights glowed in every window, giving an illuminated appearance to the greenery that hung above them. Carolers could be heard around every corner, providing a heavenly background to the moonlight casting a glow on the snowy ground, making it appear like a fairyland.

Side by side, Esmeralda and Phoebus walked through this atmosphere in uneasy silence. The gypsy was pretty sure she knew what was on Phoebus's mind: what was causing his unusual silence, his shifting glances, and the beads of sweat on his head in December.

She tried to start conversation. "Phoebus..." she said, "...when did you get back to Paris?"

"Yesterday," said Phoebus. "I got in late last night."

"Oh..." said Esmeralda, "...but I thought you were staying until the New Year."

"I'm unable to," Phoebus said quickly, "I...wore out my welcome, you might say."

"Oh..." Esmeralda said again, then after a few moments, she turned around and looked at Phoebus. "You told her, didn't you?"

"What?"

"You told your mother about me, didn't you?" said Esmeralda, "That was the important thing you wanted to discuss with her, wasn't it? And she was horrified, wasn't she? She couldn't stand the thought of her son being matched with a wretched street performer, could she? So she banished you from the family, didn't she?"

Phoebus looked at her in amazement. "Gypsies have a sixth sense, don't they?"

"No, just a knowledge of human nature," said Esmeralda, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

"No, I mean I'm sorry I caused you to first be dismissed of your rank and then be shunned by your own mother."

"You have no need to be sorry for entering my life!" Phoebus said firmly. "It's not your fault that people are blind."

Esmeralda might have said something had the great Notre Dame cathedral not been standing before them. She took his hand and eagerly led him through the tall wooden doors. This was the right setting.

. . . . . .

The two stood facing each other among the brightly glowing candles in Notre Dame's hall - the same place where they had fought so many months ago. At that time neither of them would have thought that in less than a year they would be standing here again - but with quite a different purpose.

"Okay," Esmeralda said, taking a deep breath, "we're here in Notre Dame on Christmas Eve with candles all around us and carols in the background. The perfect atmosphere. Now, what do you wish to tell me?"

Phoebus swallowed hard. There was no turning back now. This was the moment he had left his family behind for. All he could do now was pray that she wouldn't say no, and that he wouldn't faint.

Seeing his nervousness, Esmeralda took his hand and smiled warmly. "You don't have to worry," she said, "You've already proven your worth to me, so you don't need to give any speeches."

A smile crept across Phoebus's face. He breathed in deeply, then he dropped to one trembling knee and planted a kiss on her hand.

"Esmeralda..." he whispered, "...will you marry me?"

. . . . . .

Up above, a solitary figure silently witnessed the happy scene from the balcony. He couldn't hear the words they were saying to each other, nor could he see the tears of joy streaming down both their faces. He didn't need to. He knew what was happening. For months had he figured this would happen sooner or later, and he thought he had prepared himself for it. But to see it become a reality, and know Esmeralda and Phoebus truly belonged to each other now...it hurt almost more than when he had first found out about their feelings.

Quasimodo turned around and ran up to the bell tower to weep.


	7. Chapter 7

AN: I persoanlly think it's around this chapter when the story stops sucking so badly. It's still not great, but from this point on I can at least READ it without cringing. Btw, some of the dialogue in the "toast scene" is taken from the deleted HoND song "In a Place of Miracles" (search for it on YouTube - it's worth it!).

"Second Chances"

by EsmeAmelia

Chapter 7

On Christmas Morning, Notre Dame's bells rang with more joy and splendor than anyone had ever heard before. The townsfolk below could not believe it was even possible to get that much energy out of the bells.

"I swear, those bells are alive!" a woman said.

"Listen, they are singing like angels!" said a man.

"Are these the same bells we always hear?" a woman wondered.

"The very same," said another, "but the bell ringer is giving them new life on this Christmas Day."

Indeed, the bell ringer was giving the bells more life today than even _he _thought possible, for today was a once-in-a-lifetime event. His first Christmas in freedom.

. . . . . . .

As the bells rang out, Esmeralda danced around the gypsy camp, her feet so light she felt like she was flying. The events from the night before kept running through her head like a happy dream. She would have to break the news to the other gypsies somehow, but that could wait until later...much later. It was a good thing Melenie was away: that gave Esmeralda plenty of time to figure out how to explain it to her.

"My my, look who's here. You're certainly in a good mood this morning."

Esmeralda knew the voice. This voice belonged to one of the gossip-spreading troublemakers. She turned around and sure enough, it was Rossanna.

"Why the joyous smile this morning?" Rossanna continued.

"It's Christmas Morning, isn't it?" said Esmeralda, "Everyone has a joyous smile this morning...except maybe for you."

"Dreaming of your sun god, aren't you?" snickered Rossanna, "And your intimate meeting with him last night?"

Esmeralda quickly looked the other way so Rossanna wouldn't see the hint of color in her cheeks.

"So what was so important that you had to leave the celebration last night?" said Rossanna.

Esmeralda turned back around and glared at Rossanna.

"Did he invite you to his bed?" teased Rossanna.

"NO!" Esmeralda shouted.

"Ah, so _you_ suggested it, then!"

Esmeralda bared her teeth at the gossip-loving gypsy. "If it weren't Christmas Morning, I'd hit you so hard you'd be out for two days!"

"Don't think that'll save you," said Rossanna, "Everyone's talking about you!"

"Because you and Mirrette and Lennorra make up wild stories!" Esmeralda shot back.

"Oh sure," snorted Rossanna, "like how we made up the story of how you ran off with Phoebus last night, right?"

Esmeralda took a deep breath. "Look, I don't have time for this. I have Christmas Morning worship to attend." Unwilling to hear Rossanna's response, she turned sharply and ran to Notre Dame.

. . . . . .

Quasimodo felt a little nervous as he rang the bells to close the Christmas Morning service. Christmas in freedom was a new concept. Freedom in general was still a relatively new concept. At times he still couldn't believe he was now living his own life without Frollo commanding him.

He decided to begin Christmas like he would any other morning. He landed on the platform and headed toward the balcony for his usual ritual of feeding the birds. Sure enough, there was that same little pigeon waiting for his breakfast.

Quasimodo smiled at the bird. "Merry Christmas!" he said tenderly, "I've got something extra-special for you this morning!" He hurried into the tower and returned with a small cake in hand. The bird squealed with delight as he crumpled up the cake and sprinkled it on the rail.

"You're welcome," said Quasimodo. He leaned against the rail as he watched the pigeon eat. "Wish me luck," he said. "Today I'll be able to fully experience Christmas for the first time!"

The bird looked up from his food and chirped happily.

"Thank you," said Quasimodo. He gazed down at the square and sighed. "I also have two friends I need to congratulate. You know, it's finally happened. Last night, Phoebus asked Esmeralda to marry him!"

The bird chirped again.

"Don't tell them I know," said Quasimodo. "I think they probably want to surprise me with the news."

The bird gave an assuring peep.

"Okay, I think you can keep a secret," smiled Quasimodo. "It's probably about time for me to begin the day." He deeply inhaled the frosty air. "Enjoy your breakfast. Merry Christmas!" He waved at the bird and leapt over the rail, taking the journey down to the square in the quickest way possible.

. . . . . . .

"Merry Christmas, Quasimodo!"

"Merry Christmas to you too!" replied Quasimodo, waving at the weaver.

"Merry Christmas, Quasimodo!"

"Merry Christmas!" Quasimodo piped at the candlemaker.

"Merry Christmas, Quasimodo!"

"Merry Christmas!" Quasimodo said to the chestnut vendor.

"Would you like some hot chestnuts?" the vendor asked. "They'll warm you up, and they're at a reasonable price."

Quasimodo inhaled the tantalizing smell of the chestnuts. "Thank you," he said, "I think I'll have some."

He was only a few feet away from the vendor when yet another voice called out "Merry Christmas, Quasi!" This voice was high-pitched and energetic, for it belonged to a small girl who was running up to him.

"Marie!" Quasimodo exclaimed, smiling at the girl. "Merry Christmas!" He opened his bag. "Would you like some chestnuts? They're fresh."

"Oh, thank you!" said Marie. She reached into the bag and pulled out a handful of nuts.

"Take as many as you want," said Quasimodo.

"Are you sure?" asked Marie, her blue eyes giving an unsure expression.

"Yes," said Quasimodo reassuringly, "I owe you at least a little something for setting that example for the people."

Marie smiled at him.

"Marie!"

"Oh, it's Mother," said Marie. "I should be going. Thanks for the chestnuts. I'll see you again soon!"

Quasimodo waved after the girl as she disappeared into the crowd.

"Merry Christmas, Quasimodo!"

This very familiar voice lifted Quasimodo's spirit even more. He ran up to the caller and threw his arms around her. "Merry Christmas, Esmeralda!"

Esmeralda hugged Quasimodo back, her soft gloves caressing his hair and offering him refuge from the gelid air. "So, how has your day been so far?" she asked as she let go.

"Wonderful," answered Quasimodo. "More than wonderful, actually, but I can't think of any other words to describe it. Who would have thought I'd ever experience the whole city showering me with greetings?"

"I would," smiled Esmeralda.

"Well anyway," said Quasimodo, "how has your Christmas been so far?"

"Wonderful," sighed Esmeralda, "More than wonderful, actually, but I can't think of any other words to describe it. I have the most spectacular news..."

"Chestnuts?" Quasimodo quickly offered, unwilling to hear about what he already knew.

"Oh, no thank you," said Esmeralda. "I'm too excited to eat." She looked around. "I wonder where Phoebus is. He should be here when I tell you. Did you know he returned early?"

"Yes...I saw him around yesterday," Quasimodo said uneasily, hoping she wouldn't ask where he saw him.

"Are you talking about me, or is there someone else in Paris who shares my name?" a deep voice chimed in. There was only one man to whom that voice could belong. Quasimodo turned his head and sure enough, it was Phoebus.

"Hey Quasi!" he said, "Merry Christmas!"

"Same to you," replied Quasimodo, "You're home early."

"And I'll tell you the reason for my early return later," said Phoebus, "Right now, Esmeralda and I have more important news."

Esmeralda grinned widely. "May I do the honors?"

"Of course," said Phoebus.

Esmeralda took Phoebus's hand. "Quasi," she said, "something wonderful happened last night." She and Phoebus exchanged glances, barely able to contain themselves.

Quasimodo gritted his teeth behind his lips as he prepared to hear the news.

"We're going to get married!" Esmeralda and Phoebus announced together.

There, it had been spoken. Esmeralda and Phoebus would be one now. Quasimodo gazed at the two as Phoebus gently ran his fingers through Esmeralda's thick black hair sprinkled with dots of white snowflakes. How lovely they looked together. Quasimodo could see all too clearly that they belonged together. No tears formed in his lonely eyes: all of his tears had been shed long ago. He felt so foolish to have even imagined the possibility of her ever loving him. The more he looked at them, the more obvious it seemed that he was so inferior to the former soldier. Inferior. No matter what sort of praises he got, that word seemed permanently planted in his head. _Inferior._What sort of mess had Frollo done to his mind?

He didn't wish to ponder about his deep scars now. At this moment, there was only one thing he could do for the couple.

He smiled.

It wasn't a forced smile, no, it was warm and honest, for he shared their happiness. He gently reached over and took Esmeralda's hand. After he carefully peeled off her leather glove, he slowly leaned over and kissed her soft hand: the only place where he could ever place his lips. He would never feel her lips against his.

"Congratulations," he whispered, "When is the wedding?"

"We're hoping for spring," replied Phoebus.

"You're invited, of course," smiled Esmeralda.

The smile on Quasimodo's face grew wider. "I am honored." He wrapped his arms around the couple. "Good luck, my friends."

. . . . . .

Clopin removed his mask and stepped out of the puppet wagon. He had been entertaining children all morning, hoping the painted faces of his puppets would hide the growing concern in his mind. He was all too aware of the rumors that had been spreading around the tribe, and Esmeralda's behavior the previous night seemed to aggravate the situation. He intended to locate her right now and straighten this out.

She was down the street, dancing with a pair of children as she hummed a Christmas tune. Clopin stood in the shadows of a building as he observed this simple moment of pure joy. Why did he, the King of the Gypsies, feel so threatened by her obvious happiness? Why was he hiding himself and hesitating to approach her? No answer stood clear, yet still he waited for Esmeralda to finish dancing and step closer to the shadows before he attempted to talk to her.

"Esmeralda," he said, "might you spare a few moments out of this joyous day to talk?"

Esmeralda's green eyes narrowed slightly. "I know what you want to talk about."

"Can you blame me?" said Clopin, "Are you aware of how your recent actions are affecting the tribe?"

"I realize there are whispers about me," replied Esmeralda, "And I'm sorry to discover that some of my people are as blind as Frollo was."

"Blind?" Clopin exclaimed, "Whom are you referring too? Am I blind?"

"I wouldn't know," said Esmeralda, "You hide your eyes behind a mask."

"Not so: my mask has eyeholes!" said Clopin. "How is it that you've known me since you were young and you still don't understand me?"

"The same way you've watched me grow up and still don't understand me," said Esmeralda.

Clopin sighed heavily. "Esmeralda, please grant me the honor of coming to my wagon. I have a feeling there is something I should know."

Esmeralda complied to his request, for it was pointless to delay the telling of something he would inevitably have to know.

. . . . . . .

Clopin and Esmeralda sat facing each other at a small table in his wagon, underneath the shelves where many puppets were kept. "Esmeralda," Clopin began, "you know why I want to talk, don't you?"

"I have strong suspicions said Esmeralda, "so I'll just tell you. Last night Phoebus asked me to marry him."

She searched his face for a reaction, but there was none. It almost seemed as if he had known all the time.

"And did you accept his proposal?" he asked.

"Your Highness knows the answer to that," Esmeralda sighed. "Obviously if I had said no, there wouldn't be a problem."

"No, there wouldn't," agreed Clopin. "I'm glad to see you are aware there is a problem."

"I'm aware there is a problem, but I'm not entirely sure what the problem is," replied Esmeralda.

Clopin sighed. "You know what people are saying about your recent decision. Some are afraid you will become corrupted like Frollo. But most think you will leave us for the reason you made your action. Aren't you afraid marrying this man will only confirm their beliefs?"

"So you believe it too?" Esmeralda glared.

"You know better than to think I do!" said Clopin. "Indeed, I'm probably the only gypsy who thinks it's a wise decision on your part! I could see you were a lost soul long before you were aware of it yourself!"

"Lost?" Esmeralda exclaimed, "Well what would you expect when I had to look after myself at age thirteen?"

"That was not because you were lost: it was because you were capable!" snapped Clopin.

"Would I have declared you on your own if I thought you couldn't take care of yourself? You have grown stronger from it."

"I may have gained strength, but what have I lost?" mulled Esmeralda.

"You didn't have a family anyway!" stated Clopin. "And you know I tried like heck to get you one! I certainly didn't want you to grow up at such a young age, my child."

"Yes," Esmeralda said softly, "You called me your child, but you couldn't be my father."

Clopin's face again showed no reaction, but inside he was weeping. For it was true: he loved Esmeralda like a daughter, but he could never be her father. He could never be anyone's father. He had to be a leader, a fighter, and a protector. But a father? No. A father would have to devote his heart to one person, and place that person above everything else. The King of the Gypsies could never be so attached to anyone. If he grew so attached, then in the event of losing the one he was attached to, he would crumble away and neglect his kingdom. The gypsies needed a leader who would protect them, not someone who would put them in danger for one person.

Never was it so difficult to not be a father than with Esmeralda. The emerald-eyed little girl with no identity needed a family so desperately, but no family ever needed her. Or as with Melenie's parents, if a family did need her, then death would strike them. Finally at age thirteen it was decided to be a hopeless cause. She was old enough to take care of herself and quite familiar with the ways of the world. It was better for her to take care of herself than for Clopin to neglect his tribe for her. Yet still, his heart ached when he remembered how those beautiful emerald eyes had silently begged him to be her father.

He wasn't entirely sure if she forgave him even now. Now those emerald eyes belonged to a fully-grown, strong, capable, cunning, but lonely woman.

"Esmeralda, my child," he said at last, "let's not dwell on the past. This is about your future."

"Fine," said Esmeralda, "let's talk about my future."

"Yes," said Clopin. "Do you really want a future as that man's wife?"

"Why would you object to me being 'that man's' wife?" exclaimed Esmeralda. "He has helped our people greatly, even after we tried to kill him! You remember the rebellion, do you not?"

"Yes," replied Clopin, "and I certainly owe him gratitude for that. But you know it isn't just me."

"Don't you realize that this could be for the good of us all?" Esmeralda argued.

"It may be for the good of us if he were still a soldier," said Clopin. "But now he's been reduced to a position where he can barely afford to keep himself alive."

"Then he is all that much closer to us!" retorted Esmeralda, her brow furrowing slightly. "Like me, he has suffered while trying to help people. And like me, he has no family. Not anymore, anyway."

"What do you mean?" asked Clopin. "Are his parents dead?"

"His mother lives, but she has dismissed him," replied Esmeralda, "In some ways, one could argue that that is worse than his parents being dead."

"Yes, and do you wish to find out if they're right by experiencing it yourself?" Clopin said in a halfway flippant, halfway threatening attitude.

Esmeralda decided his remark didn't deserve a reaction. "I was the reason for the dismissal," she said softly.

"You certainly have a talent for making people get dismissed!" remarked Clopin.

"Don't you see?" Esmeralda almost shouted. "He needs me!"

Clopin glared at her. "And I suppose you feel like you need him as well?"

Esmeralda sighed. "We both need a family," she muttered. "Perhaps we can both find one in each other."

Clopin's face still showed no emotion, but his mind was whirling with thought. He could see what she was implying with her words. This grown woman again seemed like the little girl who so needed love.

"Sweet Esmeralda," he said gently, "I realize that you need a family, and I regret with all my heart that I was unable to be one."

"Then you should rejoice that I have found one," retorted Esmeralda. "Do not be parochial like Frollo was."

Clopin gazed at her for several moments. "You really are the bravest of us all," he murmured.

Esmeralda couldn't think of any words with which to respond. She looked at Clopin for several moments, her emerald eyes silently telling him to accept her decision.

Finally Clopin broke the silence. "Esmeralda, my child," he announced, straightening the brim of his hat, "here is my Christmas present to you."

"What?"

Clopin gave a slight grin. "A blessing for your marriage!" he declared. He reached over and touched her shoulder. "Perhaps God really is leading you in the right direction. I know nothing for certain, except that our tribe needs to support one another." His left hand massaged her shoulder as his right hand reached over and gently grasped her wrist. "Tonight I will toast your engagement!"

Esmeralda's eyes widened as her lips curled up.

"Why do you look so surprised?" said Clopin in his high-pitched voice. "Do you not know that it is a king's duty to look after all his subjects?"

The edges of Esmeralda's mouth slowly turned upward. "I guess I have a lot to learn." She bowed her head. "My sincerest gratitude, Your Highness."

. . . . .

Quasimodo gazed down at his miniature city. The buildings, the decorations, the figures...they were all exactly the same as he saw them every day, yet now they appeared to be closer to perfection than he'd previously thought. He leaned over and breathed in the sharp aroma of pine needles. Never did they smell so sweet. Strange, how on this Christmas morning everything appeared the same, and yet...different. He could feel the freedom he'd gained a year ago more intensely today. Was it nerves, or did this day really offer blessings? Whatever the answer, now he headed to the other side of the table to admire three very special figures.

The first figure was a man wearing a simple brown robe. Thought his face showed a hint of exhaustion, he stood tall, ensuring that no harm would come to his family. The second was a woman adorned in blue. She kneeled over her precious treasure with a serene expression delicately painted on her face. The third was an infant, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

Quasimodo smiled down at the figures. Surely, he thought, that infant must have blessed him and his friends. How else could he be standing here today, not only alive but free?

"Quasi?"

The voice jolted him out of his thoughts. He turned around and there was Phoebus standing at the top of the steps.

"Oh, I didn't hear you coming," said Quasimodo.

"Well, I've been here for a while," replied Phoebus.

"You sneaked into my room to startle me?"

"No," grinned Phoebus, "I've just been admiring your lovely decor. Did you do it by yourself?"

"Not all by myself," said Quasimodo. "Esmeralda helped quite a bit. I think she made the tower prettier this year. She wanted you to see it so much. Good thing you returned early."

"Funny you should say that," said Phoebus. "That's exactly what I wanted to talk with you about."

"My decorations?"

"No, my early return," said Phoebus. He leaned against the table. "I didn't come back early just to see your greenery. Rather...I was kind of forced into it."

"What do you mean?"

Phoebus took a deep breath and the whole story about his visit and his banishment came pouring out. "...so that was that. Now I'm without family as well as without rank."

Quasimodo didn't know what to say. He thought again about his own mother and how he once believed she had abandoned him. True, it turned out to be a lie, but he never forgot what it was like to feel unwanted by everyone, even the one who bore you. He never imagined he'd be standing face-to-face with someone else who had been abandoned by the one who bore him - and this one had really been abandoned. Yet another thing brought Phoebus closer to him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Phoebus shrugged. "If you think wallowing in grief changes the ways of the world, you've really spent too much time in the tower. If you really want to help me, then here's something you can do."

"What?"

Phoebus fingered the doll of himself. "I've got a wedding to plan, and one of the groom's duties is to make sure he has a best man by his side."

"Well, I don't think I'd be very good at helping you choose someone," said Quasimodo.

"I'm not finished," said Phoebus. "As I was saying, there aren't too many people who could be my best man. Battle comrades are far away. I have a little brother who might be interested, but he's loyal to his mother."

Quasimodo lifted his brow slightly.

"So, to come directly to the point," continued Phoebus. "I think someone who stuffs you under a table certainly deserves to be your best man, even if he did inflict serious injuries while he was at it, don't you?"

How dare he suggest such a thing!

Quasimodo couldn't believe the sudden surge of anger he was getting. Phoebus was asking him to be his best man and this was his reaction? How could it be that jealousy still hadn't ebbed, even though he had long been accepting his loss?

"Quasi? Don't you have something to say?"

Quasimodo blinked a few times at the former soldier. "I'm...I'm honored!" he finally managed to say.

"So you'll do it?"

"Of course I will!" Quasimodo practically shouted. The surge of anger was suddenly vanquished.

Phoebus smiled at him. "Thank you, my friend." He reached over and touched Quasimodo's shoulder. "You have been more like a brother to me than my real brother ever was."

Quasimodo smiled as widely as his cheeks would allow. How lucky he was, he thought. How lucky he was.

. . . . . .

That night, a light snow flurry showered the city. The flakes danced around in the wind, swooping up there, twirling around there. Some flakes took as long as five minutes to reach the ground, for they so enjoyed dancing with the air. Others wanted to hurry down as quickly as possible to the ground, so the could join the people in their festivities. These flakes swooped down to the square, where practically the entire city of Paris was gathered for the celebration of Christmas. The scent of roasted goose, pine boughs, mince pies, plum pudding, and hot ale (among other delectable scents) delighted every nose and made every mouth water. The strumming of lutes, the beating of drums, the ringing of bells, and the singing of carolers combined into one big angelic harmony. Even the most downhearted souls couldn't help but smile on this joyous night

.Quasimodo strolled leisurely down the streets, taking in the atmosphere of the night. How often had he imagined the magic of this day when he had observed it from above, but no fantasy his mind was capable of could live up to the reality. He stopped periodically to watch the entertainers sing, dance, or tell stories. He heard the familiar tale of the first Christmas five times, with each storyteller giving it a new dimension.

Marie joined the bellringer's side as he was watching a group of handbell musicians. She swayed from side to side keeping the beat with the music. Her little voice could occasionally be heard singing along with the bells.

"They have nice syncopation," Marie said after the song had finished, "but your bells have better tone."

"Thank you," said Quasimodo.

"Quasi, guess what?" Marie said excitedly, "Esmeralda and Phoebus have asked me to be a flower girl at their wedding!"

"Congratulations!" said Quasimodo. "You know, I'm going to be in the wedding too. I'm going to be the best man."

"Really?" said Marie. "So that's why Phoebus said I should be a flower girl because I led the best man into the street!"

Quasimodo smiled at the girl. "I probably owe it to you that I'm enjoying the festivities tonight instead of observing them from above." He took her hand and led her down the street.

. . . . .

"Attention everyone! Attention!" Clopin's voice boomed over the outdoor tables where the people were savoring a Christmas feast. "I have an announcement to make!"

His mouth full of mince pie, Quasimodo turned his head towards the Gypsy King, speculating that this announcement might be the reason why he'd been unable to locate Esmeralda all evening.

"On this joyous day," Clopin continued, "we have yet another event to celebrate. One of our bravest comrades has found someone with whom to share her life, and the feelings of love are mutual."

No gasps were heard, but a few mouths could be seen hanging open.

"So now," Clopin continued, "I am pleased to announce the engagement of Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers' to our own sister La Esmeralda!"

Esmeralda and Phoebus rose out of their seats near the head of one of the tables as the crowd broke into applause. It's difficult to read the feelings behind a clap, but Esmeralda was certain she could detect some resentful applause, probably coming from her fellow gypsies.

"And now," Clopin shouted after the applause had ceased, "a toast!" He raised his glass and struck it with a spoon. "To Esmeralda and Phoebus, wishing them a long and happy life together. A toast to love!"

Quasimodo stood up and raised his glass. "To love," he replied in unison with the crowd. He could not tell if his voice was reluctant or not: it was lost in the mass of voices.

After everyone had taken a sip of wine, Phoebus again lifted his glass. "I would like to propose another toast!" he announced.

Everyone eyed him curiously.

Phoebus cleared his throat and raised his glass higher. "A toast..." he proclaimed, "...to Quasimodo! He brought us together, and has supported us in every way possible. It is because of him that we are alive today. Let us lift the glass to our hero. To Quasimodo!"

"To Quasimodo!" Esmeralda repeated.

"To Quasimodo!" the crowd echoed.

Quasimodo's mind was ablur. For a moment he was back in the square on the first truly uplifting moment of his life. He could hear Clopin's shout of "Three cheers for Quasimodo!" and the cheers of the very people who tormented him. Previously a nonentity, now he was a hero, and being toasted by the city.

When he sipped the wine, it was sweeter than ever before.

. . . . . .

It was after midnight. Exactly how long after midnight it was, Esmeralda couldn't tell, but she reasoned it must be very late, for she appeared to be the only soul awake. The festivities had ended long ago, and the singing of the carolers had faded away. She shivered from the biting cold of this lonely hour, knowing fully-well that she probably shouldn't be doing this. She should be in her tent underneath her warm blankets, dreaming about the joyous Christmas day that had past, but uneasy feelings hadn't been letting her sleep.

"Love your enemy" she had been taught. How strange this concept was. It seemed illogical, unnatural, and in fact, impossible. Love your enemy? How could the human mind that was so consumed by anger and desires for revenge ever be so pure of heart? It was against nature. Yet here she was carrying a small basket of food - in the middle of the night - and not exactly trying to love her enemy, but at least trying to show some kindness to someone who hated her.

There was the house. The run-down, deteriorating one-room house that sheltered the mad creature. The last thing Esmeralda would ever want to do was approach the forbidding window. If the creature lived underneath the gravestones her house could not have appeared more eerie than this tiny structure hidden in the shadows. She reached back and pulled the hood of her cloak over her face in hopes that the inhabitant wouldn't recognize her, then she breathed deeply and slowly headed towards the barred window, making each step as small as possible.

"Who's there? What fool comes at this hour?"

_"Go back,"_ a silent voice told Esmeralda. _"You don't have to go through this."_ Her right foot involuntarily stepped back into one of her tracks.

"What devil is haunting me?"

Her left foot followed, digging itself into the warmth caused by her imprint in the snow.

"Who's there? I demand you show yourself!"

She was frozen, half from the cold and half from fear. Thick clouds of air puffed out of her mouth. Her boots were firmly rooted into her footprints. The silent voice came again, stronger than before. _"Go back. Run away. You don't want to do this."_

Every nerve within her wanted to obey the voice. Her right foot slowly rose out of her print and took another step.

Forward.

Yes, forward. Whether it was her own willpower or some outside force, she was moving forward. Toward the window of the house which sheltered the mad creature.

"Madam," she whispered with frozen lips, "I have brought you some food and drink to cheer your soul on this Christmas night."

She thought she would die right then when she heard the sound of footsteps within the house. Indeed, her heart stopped beating for a second as the ghastly face of Sister Gedule slowly appeared in the window.

Her skin shone in the moonlight, pale as a risen corpse. The bars in the window cast dark shadows over her eyes, making her expression unreadable. Esmeralda preferred it this way, for the sight of those eyes threatening her at this hour might make her heart stop completely.

"Who are you, and what hellish provisions have you brought?" the mad one demanded.

Esmeralda set her basket on the snow-cover windowsill. "Madam," she whispered under her breath, "I brought you some cake from tonight's party."

"Cake?" the woman snarled, "CAKE? How dare you?"

"All right," Esmeralda quickly replied. "If you don't want cake, then try some of this wine." She pulled a bottle out of the basket.

Gedule glared at the wine as if she had just been offered poison. "Water," she growled.

Esmeralda could tell from the heavy rasp in her voice that the woman must have had nothing to drink for a long time. "Please Madam," she whispered, "the wine will cheer your spirits."

"Water," the woman repeated.

"Madam," Esmeralda whispered in a nearly inaudible voice, "please try what I have offered."

Without warning, the woman's gnarled hands shot through the bars, dug her clawlike nails into Esmeralda's collar, and dragged her to the window. "WATER!" she yelled.

The thrust of the pull flung Esmeralda's hood back, exposing her dark skin, black hair, and green eyes.

"And then, I could have sworn I saw the fury of Hell burning in her eyes," Esmeralda later said. "It seemed that by her very stare she could have sucked all the life out of me. Even now I wonder how I survived."

"So it's you!" the woman screamed, tightening her grip. "Daughter of Egypt! Murderous flesh-eater!" Her nails dug right through Esmeralda's collar and began tearing away at her skin. Esmeralda's face went pale as she felt Gedule's cold nails tearing at her flesh and her own warm blood trickling down her chest. She would have attempted to pry the madwoman's hands away...if her own hands could move. Where were her hands, anyway? She could feel nothing in them. Her sense of everything except the sharp pain of the woman's grasp had been lost. She was paralyzed.

"Damn you, gypsy!" the old woman spat. "DAMN YOU!" In another unwarned move, her foot shot up and kicked the basket off the sill. At the same time, her left hand swiped across Esmeralda's face like a wild beast clawing her prey, and her right hand suddenly released the gypsy from her grip, sending her tumbling into a heap on the ground.

Esmeralda lay still for several moments, her upper chest throbbing with pain, her face awash with blood and tears, her every bone aching. She panted ferociously with long heaves of breath. The only thought in her head was the wretched face of that woman. Perhaps that woman had murdered her. Perhaps now she was lying in the last moments of her life.

She closed her eyes and consciousness left her.

. . . . .

Esmeralda woke to the feeling of something soft nuzzling against her face. She slowly batted her eyes open and the comforting sight of Djali's soft eyes came into view. The little goat had been licking his owner's face in an attempt to revive her.

"Djali..." Esmeralda murmured. She slid her hands up to her waist and carefully pushed herself up into a sitting position. "You came looking for me, didn't you?"

Djali bleated happily to see Esmeralda awake. She stroked his fur with great relief. "You have no idea what I've been through tonight."

How long had she been out? A quick glance upward told her that it couldn't have been an extremely long time: the moon was in about the same position. She hugged Djali tighter at the realization that if she had stayed unconscious for a long while, freezing to death would have been inevitable.

After a lingering moment of settling herself with this embrace, Esmeralda slowly bent her knees up to her chest and unevenly struggled to her feet. It ached to do so, but at least it was a sign that the madwoman hadn't inflicted any serious damage.

The house of Sister Gedule stood facing her in the eerie moonlight. Esmeralda gazed coldly at the house, wondering if she had passed out from injury or just from fear of that woman.

"What is your secret?" she whispered into the night. "Something must have hurt you badly." She had seen the fury of Hell burning in those eyes. And yet, she sensed that deep down there was something else. She wasn't sure if she had really sensed it or if her fear and weariness was causing her to imagine things, but something in those eyes had seemed lost, vulnerable, and alone. She might have taken pity on the woman had she not been tearing her flesh apart."

Perhaps someday I'll understand," she whispered to herself. She looked around at the area where the woman had kicked her gift. The snow had soaked the cake beyond recognition, but the bottle of wine appeared to be undamaged. She picked it up and examined it. Amazingly, the glass bottle was free of cracks and the tight cork had prevented leakage.

"What luck," she muttered. Perhaps she could still find some use for the wine. She moaned at the thought of walking back to the gypsy camp with her aching bones and the heavy fatigue on her eyes. She would have laid down and slept right there had it not been freezing cold. Where could she stay? Was there another camp close by where she could spend the night? Her teeth chattered as the winter wind blew through her hair. She tried to conjure up a mental map of Paris, but lack of sleep was preventing her from thinking straight.

I know not how long she would have remained in this state had she not glanced upward. The two towers of a building where she knew she was always welcome came into focus against the black sky, and security returned to her.

"Come on, Djali," she breathed. With the wine bottle tucked under her shoulder, she staggered toward Notre Dame.

. . . . .

"Quasimodo? Quasimodo, wake up!"

Quasimodo drowsily opened his eyes, waking out of a dream about Esmeralda pounding on his door and calling his name. Except...the sound of her voice wasn't ceasing. First he thought he was still dreaming. Then as the real world came into focus he realized he wasn't. With a slight groan, he struggled out of bed, pulled on a robe, and sleepily headed downstairs toward the door.

"Esmeralda?" he said when he opened the door.

"Quasimodo!" Esmeralda breathed, staring at him as if she were lost in the desert and he was an oasis. "You don't realize what a joy it is to see your face. I've just had the most horrible experience. Please, may I spend the night here?"

"Of course," said Quasimodo. He didn't need any further explanation for Esmeralda's calling him in the middle of the night; her desperate tone of voice and blood-stained face were enough. He gently took her cold hand and led her up the steps.

"Were soldiers after you?" he asked.

"No," gasped Esmeralda, "Worse. I can handle soldiers, but...not her."

"Oh," was all Quasimodo could say. He didn't proceed to ask whom she ment by her. Any amount of logic would tell him. As soon as they reached his room, he hurriedly brought in the most comfortable pallet he had available and set it up on the floor.

"You can sleep here," he offered.

Esmeralda fell onto the pallet. "I can't thank you enough, my friend. A dear brother who always has his door open for his sister."

It appeared that she would fall asleep at any moment. Quasimodo took a quilt off his own bed and gently wrapped it around Esmeralda's half-slumbering body. As he pulled the quilt over her shoulders, his hand suddenly touched something cold and hard. "What's this?" he asked, pointing at the frosty wine bottle.

"This?" Esmeralda said drowsily, realizing she had forgotten about the wine. "Well...I guess you could call it a bit of Christmas cheer." She gave a slight yawn and looked up at Quasimodo. "We could share it if you want."

Quasimodo picked up two glasses from his shelf. "I think that's a great idea," he said. "Merry Christmas."

. . . . . .

Later, Quasimodo lay in bed, watching Esmeralda sleep, and thinking about her earlier words.

_"A dear brother who always has his door open for his sister."_

That statement confirmed that the brotherly love Quasimodo felt was mutual. Esmeralda considered him her brother. He had been called a brother by two people that day: something he never would have dared dreamed of in his Frollo years.

Impossibility had occurred. He gazed down at the beautiful sleeping form of Esmeralda, his dear sister who would soon be Phoebus's wife, and wondered about the other impossibility. Was he ment to have a platonic relationship with a sister, but never the ajoining of two souls with a wife? If Esmeralda - the most caring, compassionate person in the world - could not love him, then who could?

Perhaps it simply wasn't meant to be. And perhaps he shouldn't be wasting time worrying about it. After all, he had been blessed with freedom, acceptance, and friendship. In that context it seemed silly to long for anything else. How selfish the human mind was, to never be satisfied.

Such were his thoughts as he drifted off to sleep on his first Christmas as a free man.


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Well, the story's slowly getting better . . .

"Second Chances"

By EsmeAmelia

Chapter 8

Well, dear readers, it is time to move on. We'll be moving on to another place and another time. The place will be a small town in Germany, near the French border, and the time will be three months later, when the first buds of spring begin to show. Of course, things did happen during those three months, but it would slow the story down if I told you about them. We have already done seven chapters of lingering, after all, so it is time to move on.

Some of you may be wondering why we have waited seven chapters to introduce a major character. Well, should you re-read the story after we are done, you will find that those seven chapters were necessary for rich storytelling, and besides, you did enjoy reading them, didn't you? But now it is time to move on, and here is where our story really begins.

A gypsy woman who appeared to be somewhere in her forties pushed her way through the crowded streets of the German town. No one knew who she was, so everyone mostly ignored her. She didn't know anyone, so she mostly ignored them. She would only acknowledge someone's existence when she ran into them, which happened frequently. Everyone was in a great hurry today, but perhaps it only seemed that way because she was in a great hurry herself. She had news for an old friend.

At last she reached her destination: a large two-story house where the town dressmaker resided. With sudden excitement she knocked on the wooden door and in a few moments the tailor answered, with a yard of fabric draped around her neck and a sewing needle stuck in her golden blonde hair.

"Brigetta?" the tailor exclaimed when she saw the gypsy. "Brigetta! So nice to see you! How have you been? No wait, don't answer that. I know that no matter how bad things are going, you're going to say 'fine,' right? Well come on in. I've got some tea brewing and it's far more than I could finish by myself!"

The tailor led Brigetta into her living room, where she fetched a steaming hot cup of tea for each of them. Once they were both seated, the gypsy began speaking.

"I have news about the family," she announced.

"Let me guess: they've all dropped over dead," said the tailor.

Brigetta rolled her eyes. "No, you're thinking about the wrong end of the cycle of life. Ulysses and Danelle have had their baby!"

"Yet another niece or nephew I'll never meet," sighed the tailor.

"Niece," said Brigetta. "Little Angelique. Very cute, very healthy baby."

"I'll bet she is," the tailor sighed again.

"My dear, one baby is pretty much like any other...unless it's yours, of course. My advice is to not get depressed and listen to my other news."

"I'm listening," said the tailor, "And I'm not an easy one to get depressed."

"Even you might get depressed from this news. It involves Phoebus."

The tailor stopped short. "Phoebus?" she repeated softly.

"Yes," said Brigetta, looking the tailor in the eye. "Prepare yourself."

"Brigetta, I'm prepared," the tailor said without making eye contact. "If he's been killed in battle, there's no reason to hide it from me. I've had myself prepared for that news since he left."

"No, he hasn't been killed in battle," said Brigetta. "He's alive. I don't know if he's well, but he's alive."

The tailor gave a sigh of relief and looked back up at Brigetta. "You don't know if he's well? Does that mean he's deathly ill?"

"No," said Brigetta with a grin. "He's just madly in love and soon to be married."

The tailor gave another sigh of relief and a wide grin. "Brigetta, you tease! I should be driving you out of my house for that! But I won't if you tell be who the lucky woman is!"

"I wasn't entirely joking," said Brigetta.

The hint of concern returned to the tailor's eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You'll understand when I tell you who the lucky woman is. She is La Esmeralda, a gypsy vagabond who was once tried for witchcraft."

The tailor was silent. Hundreds of thoughts were dancing through her head at once, each of which was jogging a hundred memories - memories she'd long been trying to forget.

"This...this Esmeralda's a gypsy?" she finally said. "If that's so, Phoebus couldn't marry her. The mother would never allow it."

"I know..." Brigetta said softly.

The tailor looked at Brigetta. "The mother didn't allow it, did she?"

The gypsy lowered her head. "No. He...he pleaded with her, but she was insufferable. She demanded that he either break away from his lover or be broken off from the family. And he...he stood his grounds and..."

"Go on," the tailor demanded. "What happened to him?"

Brigetta took a deep breath.

"He was excommunicated."

The tailor took a long sip of tea to calm herself down. More thoughts were dancing around in her head. "So...he won't have any family at his wedding?" she asked.

"None."

The tailor ruffled her brow. "If only..." Her words drifted away.

Brigetta sighed. "I know what's on your mind."

The tailor looked at her. "Really? Well what is on my mind, then?"

"You're thinking about attending his wedding."

The tailor took a few moments to answer. "I...I couldn't possibly," she finally said. "Not with Claude Frollo around."

"Then you haven't heard?" Brigetta inquired.

"Haven't heard what?"

"That Claude Frollo is dead."

The tailor stared at her in disbelief. "What?"

"Claude Frollo is dead."

A smile crept across the tailor's face. "Oh great, Brigetta, now you've done it!" she squealed. "You've made me happy about a death!" She leaned back in her seat. "I can return to Paris! I'll be safe! I can attend the wedding!"

"Quit your daydreaming," Brigetta said firmly. "If you really think you can ever show up in Paris again..."

"What makes you think I couldn't?" said the tailor. "Claude Frollo is dead!"

"One death doesn't erase a memory," Brigetta said firmly. "Perhaps I've failed to mention who took Frollo's place. It was his brother. I'm sure he's heard about you. And how about the soldiers? True, many have died since then, but there are probably still a few who remember you."

The tailor's smile faded into a scowl of being hit by reality.

"And even if there were no danger," Brigetta continued, "would you really want to return to the city that has caused you so much pain?"

Now the tailor could utter only one word: "Phoebus..."

"I doubt he's thought to invite you to his wedding," said Brigetta. "And furthermore, you are still young, and the emotional pain might surprise you."

"What sort of pain would come from seeing Phoebus again?" the tailor sighed. "I suppose he believes I'm dead."

"I would imagine so," said Brigetta.

"He believes I'm dead..." the tailor repeated.

"If you want my advice," said Brigetta, "I think things should stay that way. Remember, he's been a soldier. He could have evolved into a completely different person."

"He believes I'm dead..." the tailor said again.

Brigetta sighed, realizing that there would be no getting through to her. "All right," she gave in, "it is your decision. I can help you get back to Paris...if you're sure that's what you really want."

The tailor closed her eyes for a few moments, silently pondering issues that she had been trying to brush out of her mind for years.

"I will go..." she finally said.

"Are you sure?" asked Brigetta.

"Yes," the tailor said.

"You're willing to face any risks, physically or emotionally?"

The tailor took a deep breath and gave a small nod.

"All right," the gypsy sighed. "However foolish this may be, I'll help you get back to Paris."

"Could you also do me another favor?" asked the tailor.

"What?"

"How long would it take your caravan to deliver a letter to Paris?"

"I'd say about six days, if the weather's good."

"Okay, thanks!" the tailor said quickly as she rose from her seat and headed to her writing desk. "I'm coming, Phoebus!" she muttered to herself as she picked up her quill pen and began to write.

_"My dear brother Phoebus..."_

_. . . . . ._

_Paris, France, Six Days Later_

"I think Esmeralda's coming back today," said Quasimodo as he scanned the shelves of the bakery.

"Mmm-hmm," muttered Phoebus, who was concentrating on the ball of dough he was kneading away at.

"According to word from Clopin," Quasimodo continued, "her caravan should arrive this afternoon. It may even be here now!"

Phoebus looked up from his work. "Are you going to make a purchase or not?"

"Sorry," shrugged Quasimodo. "There's so much variety to choose from."

"I take it: you're looking for rolls that weren't made by me. Well, this certainly wouldn't be my first choice for a job. It's not as glamorous as being a soldier, but next to starvation it looks pretty good."

"Hey, you're not so bad," said Quasimodo. "You know, your baguettes are better than the baker's."

"Don't tell him that," said Phoebus, "or he might fire me for fear that I'd take over."

"I doubt good baguettes would enable you to take over," grinned Quasimodo. He looked over at Phoebus. "Is something wrong?"

"What?"

"It's just that you don't seem very excited that your fiancee's returning."

"It's not a lack of excitement," replied Phoebus. "It's just a matter of not being ready."

Quasimodo gave a small sigh. "Please don't worry about that. I'm sure you'll find a house you can afford." Ever since Esmeralda's caravan had left Paris a few weeks ago, Phoebus had been trying to find a place for them to live, but every empty house had been too expensive.

"In case you haven't noticed, Quasi, the room at the boarding house is not meant for a couple. I doubt it's even meant for one person. Maybe it's meant for a dog."

"Phoebus, she's used to living in small places," said Quasimodo. "I'm sure she..." he was cut off by the sound of the small bell above the bakery door ringing. Both men turned to find their favorite gypsy woman standing in the doorway.

"Pardon me, gentlemen," she said, "but would either of you know the whereabouts of a Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers' or a bell ringer who goes by the name of Quasimodo?"

Quasimodo laughed. "Esmeralda!" He ran up to the dancer and threw his arms around her. "How was your journey?"

"It's the best thing about being a gypsy: traveling," said Esmeralda. She released herself from Quasimodo's grasp and turned to Phoebus. "Your bride to be has returned! And she's staying here until we are married."

"Welcome back," said Phoebus, not looking up from his work. "Sorry if I've disappointed you by not tackling you in a hug and smothering you in kisses. I'm working."

"Okay, that's it," said Esmeralda, pretending to be angered. "I want to break up our engagement!"

"You'd really want to break it up if I got flour on your dress," grinned Phoebus.

"No, I'd just send Djali after you and cause you to drop that dough and have to start over," Esmeralda grinned back. "All joking aside, I have something for you." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a letter sealed in wax. "No, this isn't a love note from me. It's a letter from Germany that my caravan has been asked to deliver."

"Germany?" exclaimed Phoebus.

"Yes," said Esmeralda. "You know anyone in Germany?"

"No," replied Phoebus, brushing flour off his hands. "Are you sure it's for me?"

"Pretty sure," said Esmeralda. "I'd suggest you read it. But if it's from a woman I'm breaking our engagement for real."

Esmeralda handed the letter to Phoebus, who hastily broke the seal and began to read. As he read, Quasimodo watched with great interest. Who would be sending letters from Germany?

Apparently someone very important, for Phoebus didn't normally whisper exclamations to himself when he read.

"Oh my god..." Phoebus whispered, "...oh my god...Minerva..."

"Minerva?" exclaimed Quasimodo.

"Your sister?" said Esmeralda. "The one who died?"

"Minerva..." Phoebus said again.

"I think that letter has whisked him into another world," said Esmeralda.

"Minerva..." Phoebus repeated.

"Hello?" said Esmeralda. "Phoebus? Are you still in this bakery, or have you traveled back in time? Wake up, I see a ball of dough here that the baker's not going to be happy about when he sees in unfinished!"

It appeared that Phoebus barely heard her teasing. "She's alive!" he shouted as he slammed the letter on the table.

"Minerva?" said Quasimodo.

"That's who I would imagine..." said Esmeralda.

"You imagine right," replied Phoebus. "She's alive, and she's coming to our wedding!"

"Our _wedding?"_ exclaimed a stunned Esmeralda.

"You mean, she's coming here?" said Quasimodo. "We'll get to meet her?"

"Yes indeed," said Phoebus. "Prepare yourselves for the treat of a lifetime. Read the letter if you want. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a loaf to finish."

"Well, I hate to cut this short," said Esmeralda, "but if I'm to have the treat of a lifetime soon I'd better make sure I have food for then. The people will be glad to find that the dancer La Esmeralda has returned. I shall see you two later."

Quasimodo heard neither her goodbye nor the bell sounding as she left. He was gazing down at the letter on the table.

_"My dear brother Phoebus,"_ it read, _"Please forgive me for allowing so much time to pass without reaching you. I never would have wanted to be a little more than a year away from thirty before I spoke to you again._

_I imagine Mother has told you I am dead. No, this is not a ghost writing to you; I am alive and well. I've resided in Germany for the past ten years, making a decent living as a dressmaker. I'll explain the details to you when I see you again._

_Yes, you read that last part correctly. I heard that you are getting married, and I heard about what Mother did to you. Many congratulations! Well, not about what Mother did to you, but about your engagement. As for Mother, I hope you and your new wife give her nightmares._

_Anyway, I was wondering if you would be interested in having one family member at your wedding. I understand if you do not want me at your wedding, but I am still coming to Paris. It's been long time for us to meet again. I can't give an exact date, but if all goes well I should be arriving on the first of April. I'll be traveling with a Gypsy caravan._

_I can't wait to see you._

_With much love,_

_Minerva."_

_. . . . . ._

The first of April seemed to arrive without any time passing. Quasimodo, Esmeralda, and Phoebus were all in the street at sunrise to await the gypsy caravan that would bring Minerva. As the day progressed, breakfast consisted of a bag of rolls fresh from the bakery (which Phoebus insisted he did not make), a few comments were made about how this was wasting a perfectly good spring day, and restlessness eventually caused all three to scatter.

Quasimodo peered up at the sun for what seemed to be the hundredth time. It had to be almost noon by now. He paced down the street in a zigzag manner to avoid running into the crowds. He was a patient individual by nature, but even he was starting to grow anxious. Then suddenly, a peculiar language brushed at his ear.

_"Weirden Se mir bitte Hilfin?"_

Quasimodo widened his eyes; he had never heard this tongue before. He snapped his head around to get a glimpse of the source.

A tall blonde-haired woman was leading a chestnut mare down the street. A heavy-looking bag dangled from her arm, yet she still managed to tap random passerby's shoulders to (apparently) ask for help. She spoke in an odd language that was completely new to Quasimodo.

_"Weirden Se mir bitte Hilfin?" _she said to a man who could not understand her, so he turned away. She growled in annoyance. Quasimodo cocked his head: this peculiar language had bred a peculiar growl. He stepped closer to the woman.

_"Weirden Se mir bitte...oof!"_ The woman ran into Quasimodo.

"Oh...I-I'm sorry.." Quasimodo stammered.

_"Oh, entschuldigung..."_ the woman began, then she cut off when her eyes met Quasimodo's.

Quasimodo gazed intensely at the woman. She had the plainest face he had ever seen: entirely one shade of light peach, with the only traces of color being in her golden eyebrows and her deep blue eyes. A line highlighted the edges of her chin, and her nose was so short it gave the illusion that someone had cut off the end of it. Her lips were shaded a very light pink: they were barely distinguishable from the skin that surrounded them. Her golden blonde hair brushed around her shoulders in thick waves, nearly hiding the two tiny silver hoops that pierced her earlobes.

She stood tall, wearing a white blouse covered by a vest that was some shade of magenta. This same shade of magenta seemed to flow down from her vest to her matching skirt, which draped down to just above her ankles. A hint of the same color also showed up in her hair: in the form of the matching hairband that connected her ears. Her torso, waist, and hips were nearly indistinguishable from each other: her shape appeared to be nearly rectangular.

The most intriguing attribute was her eyes. Royal blue irises surrounding deep black pupils, topped with creased lids and golden brows. Her eyes didn't spark like Esmeralda's, rather they held back, like they were concealing something.

These eyes gazed at Quasimodo with an expression that was difficult to interpret. It wasn't fear: the expression Quasimodo would expect. It wasn't even disgust. It almost seemed to be...fascination. Then...what was she doing now? No, it couldn't be what he thought...that would be impossible...but it still seemed like she was. Was she..._smiling_ at him?

_"Guten Tag,"_ she said. Was that a greeting? How could he respond? Even if he could speak the language, he doubted that he would be able to respond. He gazed at her eyes, which now almost seemed to be absorbing his every detail and growing more intrigued by the moment. Quasimodo was beginning to grow a bit uncomfortable.

At this moment Phoebus was turning around a corner, unnoticed by either Quasimodo or the stranger. "Quasi," he said, "have you seen Esmeralda? She..." then he cut off when he saw the blonde woman.

The figure was much taller than he remembered, with a more mature face, holes in her earlobes...yet he was certain he had gazed into those eyes before. The longer he looked at her, the more certain he felt. This could be no one else.

"Minerva?"

Meanwhile, the stranger had released Quasimodo from her gaze and was now pointing her royal blue eyes at Phoebus.

The figure was much taller than she remembered, with a more mature face, a beard around his chin...yet she was certain she had gazed into those eyes before. The longer she looked at him, the more certain she felt. This could be no one else.

"Phoebus?"

The two stared at each other for a long moment each absorbing the moment for which they had waited so long. How unreal it seemed for each to be staring into the face of their fully-grown twin, whom they long imagined to still be eight years old.

Finally the initial shock passed, enabling one of them to speak. "PHOEBUS!" the woman yelled. She put her bag down and tackled Phoebus in a hug, causing him to fall over backward.

"Oh my gosh, I can't believe it's you!" the woman screamed, still squeezing his neck. "I can't believe it's you!"

She spoke French, but with a strange accent that was completely unfamiliar to Quasimodo. It sounded as though she swirled the words around in her mouth before spitting them out. He found it very difficult to believe that French was her mother language, but then he supposed that if she hadn't spoken it for ten years her tongue would have to readjust.

"This had better not be a dream!" the woman continued. "I've waited too long for this to be a dream! All this time! Twins shouldn't be apart for twenty years!" She pulled back to examine his face. "My goodness, how you've grown! Of course, you're probably thinking the same thing about me, aren't you? Oh by the way, don't look now," She pointed at his beard. "but there's a big hairy rodent nesting on your chin; you might want to do something about that."

"Ah Minerva, I see you haven't changed," Phoebus said once he got a chance to speak. "Still the cheeky brat you always were, aren't you?"

"Still the bumbling jerk you always were, aren't you?" Minerva retorted with a grin. "I'm still so angry at Mother for what she did to you. Just for following your heart! For heaven's sake, the woman you're engaged to had nothing to do with Father's death! By the way, where is the lucky woman, anyway?"

At this moment Esmeralda turned around a corner to find Phoebus on the ground with his sister on top of him.

"What on earth?" she exclaimed.

"Ah, the lucky woman has arrived!" announced Phoebus as he and Minerva scrambled to their feet. He proudly extended his arm to Esmeralda. "Minerva, this is..."

Minerva didn't wait to be introduced. "_Guten Tag_, soon to be sister-in-law!" She grasped the edges of her skirt and curtsied deeply. "I'm Minerva de Chateaupers', Goddess of Wisdom."

Esmeralda rolled her eyes slightly at the obvious family resemblance. _"Guten Tag,"_ she replied, _"Ich heisse La Esmeralda."_

_"Ah, sprechen Sie Duietch?"_ said Minerva.

_"Uh...Ich...spreche...kline...Deutch..." _Esmeralda fumbled, then finally added "Sorry, German's not my strongest tongue."

"I could tell that simply by your accent," replied Minerva.

Esmeralda might have insulted Minerva then, but she was beginning to get a strange feeling that she had seen this woman before. "Have we met?" she said, her eyes widening.

"I don't perceive how," said Minerva. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know," said Esmeralda. "You just...seem so familiar..."

"I didn't realize I resembled my brother so much," Minerva grinned.

Esmeralda gave a halfhearted grin back, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she had met this woman before.

"Anyway," said Minerva, "let me introduce my horse." She began heading towards the chestnut mare. "Her name's Penelope, and she's swift as lightning. I believe she'd be a good war horse, so if you ever need a new one, she's available."

"I have my own, Achilles," replied Phoebus. "And he's...very well trained, let's say. Has...unusual talent."

"You don't say," said Minerva.

Quasimodo froze. They were headed right in his direction. What would she say about him? Would he be discussed like an odd species?

"And who's this?" asked Minerva.

Quasimodo's heart began beating so hard that it seemed to want to escape out of his chest.

Phoebus walked up to them and extended his arm to Minerva. "Quasimodo," he said, "this is my sister Minerva." He then extended his arm to Quasimodo. "Minerva, Quasimodo. He helped us in the rebellion against Frollo."

Minerva approached Quasimodo and offered her hand. "_Guten tag_, Quasimodo." Her mouth was smiling at him, but her eyes were again piercing him with fascination.

Quasimodo hesitantly shook her hand. "Hello..." he said, his voice coming out in almost a whisper.

"So, you assisted in the revolution?" said Minerva.

"I-I didn't do much..." Quasimodo said as he glanced downward.

"Saving my life isn't much?" Esmeralda exclaimed.

"You saved my soon to be sister-in-law's life?" said Minerva, her smile growing so wide that dimples appeared on her cheeks.

Quasimodo found he couldn't answer, either from embarrassment or shyness, or both.

"Yes, he did," said Esmeralda, momentarily casting a confused look at Quasimodo. "I'll tell you the story sometimes, unless your brother wants to tell you."

Quasimodo breathed deeply and made an attempt to overcome his shyness. "So...w-which one of you is older?" he stuttered. "I-I mean...I know you're twins...b-but you c-couldn't have been born at the same time, so who's older?"

"I am," replied Phoebus.

"But only by five minutes," replied Minerva. "I guess you could call him my big brother, but we were born on the same day, so we are generally considered the same age, despite our five minute difference."

"I-I see," said Quasimodo.

"Anyway," said Phoebus, picking up Minerva's bag, "I should probably be escorting my sister to where she'll be staying. We have twenty years to make up for, as well."

"You're right, we do," agreed Minerva. She turned to Esmeralda. "I hope to see you again shortly, soon to be sister-in-law. Let's get to know each other before the wedding." She turned to Quasimodo. "And that goes for you as well. _Auf Weiderzehn_ to you both!" With that, she turned around and began following Phoebus down the street, with her horse close behind.

Quasimodo stared at the two blonde heads as they disappeared into the crowd - particularly the blonde head with uneven waves draping down her back. The mysterious Minerva had treated him like she would anyone else. On first meeting! Even Esmeralda had gasped when she had first realized his face was real and not a mask. He could hardly believe it. He felt strangely energized by her spark and somewhat unusual friendless, and was finding himself looking forward to seeing her again.

"I like her," he said.


	9. Chapter 9

AN: Still posting my old stuff. Btw, thanks to the people who reviewed.

"Second Chances"

by EsmeAmelia

Chapter 9

Later on that day, Esmeralda was elbowing her way through the crowds at the Gypsy camp to see what else the caravan might have brought. It had brought her fiance's sister, but it was also supposed to bring her own sister - or at least the closest thing she had to a sister. She rose up on her toes in an attempt to see above people's heads, but to no avail. At last, the black streak of a long braid swiftly passed in front of her eyes. Esmeralda grinned at the sight.

"Melenie!"

The black braid ceased its movement and slowly turned to face Esmeralda, revealing Melenie's sharp brown eyes.

"Esmeralda!"

The two women raced up to each other and collapsed into a tight embrace. "Oh Melenie," Esmeralda murmured, "I've missed you so much." She ran her fingers down Melenie's braid, smiling at the bumpy texture. At the same moment, Melenie was feeling her way through Esmeralda's thick mane.

After at least forty-five seconds of nearly smothering each other, the two women finally separated.

"So, what events have I missed?" Melenie asked.

Suddenly it hit Esmeralda that Melenie didn't know about her engagement. All the months she had to prepare for this moment were gone, and she still had not the slightest notion how to explain it. She remembered the concern in her friend's eyes from the winter before, the worry that she would abandon her people. Suddenly she felt ashamed.

"Melenie..." she said softly and hesitantly, "I have some...important news."

Melenie lowered her eyelids, showing her thin eyelashes. "I know what you want to tell me," she whispered.

Esmeralda's eyes bulged. "What?"

"News like this travels fast among the gypsies," continued Melenie. "You are engaged to the man you claimed you had no feelings for."

Esmeralda was struck dumb. It was too late to prepare her friend for the news. No apologies could be made. She hated to think about what Melenie must think of her now. The black-braided gypsy had looked to Esmeralda as a sister since she was a child of seven and Esmeralda was a child of twelve. Now Esmeralda felt like she had betrayed that relationship. Why oh why couldn't she have been honest with Melenie four months ago? Surely she could have trusted her friend with that secret. She tried to remember the reason, but something blocked her mind.

"Melenie..." she said with her voice coming out in a whisper, "I'm...I'm sorry for not being honest with you."

Melenie shrugged. "Well, if I told you I wasn't angry and hurt when I heard about it, I'd be lying. I suppose it's fortunate that we were apart when it happened. But I realized that the heart doesn't always listen to reason." She turned her brown eyes up to Esmeralda. "I know what you think of me, dear sister."

"What do I think of you?" replied Esmeralda.

"You think I'm afraid," answered Melenie. "You believe I worry about you and that I fear change. And you're partly right: I do worry about you. You are practically my sister - I can't help but worry about you." She lightly touched Esmeralda's cheek. "But I do not fear change."

Esmeralda couldn't think of anything to say.

"And another thing," Melenie continued, "I trust my sister. I trust her to know what's best for her." She gently stroked Esmeralda's hand. "I know you are a Christian now, but would you grant me permission to read your palm just this once?"

Esmeralda found her mouth beginning to smile. "I think God will forgive this one." She stuck out her hand.

Melenie took her friend's hand and began running her fingers across the older gypsy's palm. The exact movements of her finger are difficult to describe without the use of visual aid. Sometimes her finger seemed to dance across the palm. Other times her finger made a grinding motion, like it was digging into the skin. Still other times it barely moved at all. And all this was executed within a few seconds.

"I see a wise young woman," said Melenie, "who has the courage to handle anything that comes her way. You will face some hardships in this marriage, but love will help you pull through." She looked up and faced Esmeralda's emerald eyes. "And so will your sister."

Esmeralda unconsciously threw her arms around Melenie. "My little sister..." she murmured, "...my little sister...my little sister..."

Melenie closed her eyes and absorbed the embrace. Yes, she was accepting her friend's attachment to Phoebus. She was still uncomfortable, and she didn't particularly like it, but she was accepting it. Now that her statements had been made, she actually found it much easier than she had initially perceived it would be. Esmeralda needed her support. That little notion far superseded all doubt and concern.

"Melenie," Esmeralda said after they separated, "I know you must think I'm the most demanding person in the world, but I have something to ask of you."

"What is it?"

"Would you be my maid of honor?"

"Esmeralda!" Melenie exclaimed, pretending to be offended. "That is a stupid question!"

"It is?"

"Yes," Meleine grinned, "it's stupid to ask such a thing when you know perfectly well that I'd love to do it!"

. . . . . .

"Well sister, welcome to my home, or at least the place where I currently reside." Phoebus led Minerva into his room at the boarding house.

"I always wondered what luxuries the Captain of the Guard was provided with," said Minerva.

"If you want to know that, go to the third floor of the Palace of Justice," said Phoebus. "Here you'll only find what luxuries a boarding house resident is provided with. And what luxuries they are. A cramped bed, two worn-out chairs, an ugly table, a wall hidden away by furniture past its prime, and a window with a lousy view make up this tiny, drafty, hot-in-summer-and-cold-in-winter home."

"You're trying to scare me away, aren't you?" teased Minerva, but secretly she was amazed at how poor her brother appeared to be now, and angry at Frollo and her mother for causing it.

"So, is the food good here?" she asked.

"It's decent enough to stay alive on," answered Phoebus.

"Ah, so it's not good. Well fortunately for you, I'm not a picky eater, although I do adore my German food. Say, have you ever been to Germany?"

"Only passing through."

"Then you have sorely missed out," said Minerva, "If you ever linger there you'll see why I decided to stay."

"Hmm, you mean why you decided to stay and let everyone think you're dead?"

Minerva shifted her eyes and turned her head away.

"Minerva," Phoebus said firmly, "I'm asking you seriously here. Why did you let everyone believe you're dead?"

He thought he could hear her breath picking up its pace. After a moment or two, she suddenly whirled around and stared him in the eye.

"Phoebus," she said quickly, "remember the time when you stole Diana's necklace and hid it in the yard and you made me promise not to tell anyone?"

"Uh, yes."

"And do you remember what you said?

""I said Mother would think Diana had done it."

"No, besides that," Minerva said sarcastically. "Remember, you said that the next time I had a secret, you wouldn't tell anyone."

"And..."

"The time has come."

Phoebus raised an eyebrow. "All this time and you still haven't learned how to forget. So, you're about to tell me something I'm not supposed to tell anyone else, am I correct?"

"Congratulations, you finally got it," sighed Minerva.

"All right, go ahead. I won't tell anyone."

Minerva glanced downward guiltily. "I-I...I ran away. Mother...she tried to force me into marriage."

Phoebus nodded understandably.

"The man was absolutely stupid," Minerva continued without looking him in the eye. "Cold hearted, arrogant, certainly not someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. So I ran away with the gypsies. I thought it better to be presumed dead than to dishonor the family...uh, no offense."

"None taken," said Phoebus.

Minerva kept her eyes pointed downward as she struggled to keep herself from shaking. She had told the truth...at least part of it. There was no need for her brother to know the rest of it at this time. After a moment or two, she glanced back at his face to see his expression was almost indifferent.

"I see I've really triggered your emotions, haven't I?" she said with a raised brow.

"Terribly," Phoebus grinned as he playfully pinched her ear.

"Ow...hey...watch out, there's a hole there now!" Minerva laughed as she pried his fingers off.

"And to think, you used to say women with pierced ears practiced self-torture," said Phoebus.

"Look who's talking - you used to say men with beards looked like animals!" Minerva said as she yanked his beard.

"Touchee'," said Phoebus as he pulled her fingers away.

"Now if we can quit the child's play for a moment, I'd like to thank you."

"For what?"

"For hiding it."

"Hiding what?"

"Your reaction to Quasimodo. The poor guy's had a hard life."

Minerva gave a somewhat confused expression. "I certainly noticed that his appearance was different from most, but that was no reason for a reaction. We all have our own attributes. What, were you expecting me to start screaming in the middle of a crowded street and cause a commotion?"

"Well, to be honest, I was praying that you wouldn't," admitted Phoebus. "He's had his share of people's reactions, and far worse."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a long but very interesting story," said Phoebus. "One which I might tell you after you unpack."

"Oh right, unpacking!" Minerva said as she suddenly set down her bag and bent over. She opened up her bag and pulled out an armful of dresses. "These are all my own creations," she stated. "Sewed every last stitch in them, and these stitches will not come undone, not even if you were to tie one end to a pole and have a horse pull on the other end. I make a good business with my needle."

"Clothes press is over there," said Phoebus.

"Thank you." Minerva hobbled over to the clothes press and began stashing her dresses inside. "People come from all over to purchase my dresses. The material I use is cheap, but very soft. I've always thought that comfort is just as important as beauty, and...oh, what's this?"

Her eyes had caught sight of something white stuffed in the bottom shelf of the press. She yanked at the soft material.

"Bedsheets?" she observed.

"A failed idea would be a better term to describe them," answered her brother. "Mother discarded them from her guest room and I snuck them away, thinking that maybe they could be a wedding dress."

"A wedding dress?"

"I spontaneously had this crazy idea that I could have those sheets made into a wedding dress to surprise Esmeralda," said Phoebus. "But like most spontaneous ideas that you get on the morning after you're banished, this one wasn't meant to be. My new job offers a decent salary, but all the dressmakers around here have outlandish prices."

"Ah, I see," said Minerva, running the sheets through her fingers. "Well, these would indeed make a fine wedding dress. Shame that none of the dressmakers in town realize that." She then turned her head slyly. "You know, as I said earlier, I'm quite a skilled dressmaker myself."

"Yes, I heard you say that just a few minutes ago."

"You're not catching on, are you?" said Minerva. "You want a dressmaker, I am a dressmaker...do you see my point?"

"You want to make Esmeralda a wedding dress?"

"Bravo, you finally figured it out." Minerva rolled her eyes as she pulled the sheets out of the press. "For the right price, I could turn these into a lovely wedding dress within two weeks."

"The right price?" Phoebus said skeptically. "Define 'the right price.' Don't tell my fiancee I said this, but I won't be put in the poorhouse just so she can have a dress."

"Well, I certainly have no intention of putting you in the poorhouse," Minerva said as she pretended to examine the sheets. "Hmm...very fine silk...might be a bit difficult...all right...my estimated price would be...nothing."

Phoebus raised his brows. "Enough joking, now tell me the real price."

"No, I mean it," said Minerva. "Consider it payment for letting me stay with you, and a favor from sister to brother."

A grin covered Phoebus's face as he talked. "You always were a softie. A stubborn, impossible softie, but a softie nonetheless. But are you sure you don't want anything?"

Minerva's pink lips turned upward into a cheeky expression. "Well, you know, there's always the secret salute. You remember the secret salute, don't you?"

He flinched slightly. "I remember the secret salute all too well. Which, may I remind you, was something we did as small children who don't know embarrassment."

"So what's your point?" quipped Minerva. "Half our childhood was spent away from each other."

"It was still spent," Phoebus said gruffly. "I doubt you've noticed, but we're not eight years old anymore."

"Oh, come on, has the army really made you that stuck-up?" Minerva said with her lips puffing. "There's no one here but you and me. Pretty please?" She batted her eyelashes at him and stuck her lips upward to the physical limit.

Phoebus groaned. "How is it that after all these years you still haven't outgrown that smile? And how is it that after all these years I still don't have the power to resist it? All right, all right, you win! But just one time."

He awkwardly raised his hand to his forehead. Minerva grinned and saluted him back, then they each began moving their hands back and forth: first touching their own forehead, then touching each other's foreheads, then their own, then each other's.

"Okay, I hope you enjoyed that, because I'm not doing it again," said Phoebus after they put their hands down.

"Lucky for you, I don't want to do it again," said Minerva, "but I do wish to know what the accommodations will be here."

"Do you want the bed or the floor?"

"Well, I certainly don't want to take your bed," said Minerva.

"And I don't blame you; the floor's more comfortable."

Minerva rolled her eyes. "I meant that in a guest-respecting-the-host way."

"No, I'm serious," said Phoebus. "The floor's more comfortable."

. . . . . .

Minerva set to work on turning Annette's old sheets into a dress fit for a royal wedding. She worked in the room for a day or two, but quickly ran into a problem. She discovered that people who are soon to be married never like to go too long without seeing their fiancees, and Esmeralda was no exception. Esmeralda paid calls on Phoebus several times a day, forcing Minerva to stash the dress in whatever place that was closest to her (which usually meant sitting on it). It became obvious that this wasn't going to remain a secret for long.

"Phoebus, I can't work like this!" she finally exclaimed one morning.

Phoebus looked up from the book he was reading to find Minerva in the opposite chair, furiously poking her needle through the cloth. "Can't work like what?" he asked.

"I can't work on this dress with Esmy always dropping in unexpectedly. There's no place to hide it. It won't fit in the clothes press..."

"Well that's only because someone stuffed it with all her clothes!" interrupted Phoebus.

Minerva rolled her eyes. "It's your wedding, not mine. If you wish for this dress to be a surprise, then you figure out a way for me to hide it."

"Calm down sis," said Phoebus. "I have an idea."

"It had better be good," said Minerva. "What is it?"

"Quasimodo!" said her brother. "You could take the dress to Notre Dame and hide it there. There's plenty of room, and I'm sure Quasi would love to have the company."

Minerva cocked her head. "Well, that's certainly an idea, but I barely know him. What makes you think he'd be eager to do it?"

"He takes in wounded soldiers," Phoebus said with a grin.

. . . . .

"Hello?" Minerva called out as she entered Notre Dame's hall with the dress gathered up in her arms. "Is anyone here?" Nothing answered but her echo bouncing off the mighty walls. She gazed around the massive room that she hadn't seen in ten years. Tinted sunlight streamed in through the stained glass windows, casting an ethereal glow on the intricately detailed statues. How strange, she didn't remember it being this beautiful. Nor did she remember her way around the building.

"Leave town for a decade and they remodel the church," she muttered. She took to wandering around, which proved to no avail. Every stretch of hall seemed to branch out into ten others. At last she spotted a figure gazing up at a statue of the Virgin Mary. Although his face was turned away from her, she could easily identify the figure, for his humped back was a dead giveaway.

All right, now what? Should she tap him on the shoulder and explain that Phoebus sent her? She suddenly felt quite foolish to ask a near-stranger to make such a large commitment.

She didn't have much time to ponder, for the figure sensed that he was not alone and turned his head. The instant his eyes met hers, he fled.

Minerva chased after him, amazed at how fast those uneven legs could run. She couldn't have kept up with him even if her arms weren't full, but still she followed him up the stone spiral steps. Her legs began to ache from the climb, and the dress began to slip from her arms. After a little while, the silk tangled around her legs and caused her to fall, landing in a heap on the stone steps. She uttered a swear word under her breath and fiercely attempted to free herself from the sheets.

"Um...a-are you all right?" a small voice asked.

Minerva looked up to see Quasimodo shyly peeking his head around the bend in the wall.

"Yes.." she said, "...if you consider falling down on hard stone steps with your legs tangled up in an unfinished dress to be all right."

"Well...w-would you accept my help?" He timidly walked down to her and offered his hand. Minerva looked at him again with that fascinated expression, and Quasimodo again felt like he was being investigated. "You don't have to be afraid of me," he said softly.

"Who said I was afraid of you?" replied Minerva. "I merely find you intriguing."

"W-well...you're not accepting my help."

He wasn't even finished with his sentence before Minerva took his hand and allowed him to help her up. "Who said I wasn't accepting your help?"

"W-w-well...f-forgive me then," Quasimodo said awkwardly as he untangled the dress from her legs.

"Do you remember me?" Minerva asked.

"Uh, y-yes..yes I do," replied Quasimodo. "Minerva. Phoebus's sister."

"I would prefer not to be known just by who my relatives are!"

"Well I don't know you otherwise," said Quasimodo. "At least, I don't know much about you. I know you're a ball of fire who flies instead of walking and plays practical jokes."

"You heard a description of me when I was eight years old," said Minerva. "That is not knowing me for who I am."

"Well...forgive me again."

"You're very quick to beg for forgiveness," commented Minerva. "It's not your fault that you don't know me."

Quasimodo was briefly overcome by spontaneity. "Well, how about you come up to the tower and we can get to know each other for who we are?" He wasn't sure why he had given this invitation - he certainly wasn't accustomed to inviting near-strangers into his home.

Minerva's eyes relaxed slightly as she smiled at him. "I'd love to."

"A-all right," Quasimodo stammered. He took her hand and began leading her up the steps."

There is so much I want to know about you," Minerva said as they ascended. "Qua-si-mo-do...is that how you pronounce it? Such an unusual name. What does it mean?"

Quasimodo responded with an awkward silence.

"What is wrong?" persisted Minerva. "Do you not know what it means?"

"Oh, I know what it means," Quasimodo said bitterly, hastening his pace.

"Oh...I see..." Minerva said awkwardly as he began to lead her across the bridge between the two towers. After a moment or two, she molded her face into a comforting expression and said softly, "I promise I won't say anything. You don't have to be afraid to tell me."

There was something about Minerva's accented voice that made Quasimodo less ashamed. "All right..." he finally whispered, "...it means 'half-formed.'"

Within a moment, he regretted telling her. What had he been thinking? He was shaming himself even before he and Minerva got acquainted. For once a person was unaffected by his looks, and now he had to go and tell her what his name meant. The fact that she had promised that she wouldn't say anything did nothing to comfort him. Not saying anything wouldn't prevent her face from reacting. Would she cringe in disgust? Back away in fear? Hold back a giggle?

When he finally brought himself to look back at her face, her expression was almost unreadable: certainly not any of the reactions he had expected. How difficult it was to read her face sometimes. She seemed ashamed to have asked the question, yet not regretting it. "I feel sorry for you," her eyes seemed to be saying.

It had never occurred to Quasimodo that anyone should feel sorry for him because of his name. His name was something he had grown up with: something he was accustomed to. He wasn't fond of his name, but he wouldn't change it.

"Is there a surname that goes with that?" asked Minerva.

Quasimodo lowered his brows and ground his teeth. "No," he said firmly, "I refuse to use the surname of the one who raised me."

"Well I don't blame you there," Minerva immediately responded. "That name is synonymous with the devil."

"You know about him?" asked Quasimodo.

"Of course," said Minerva. "That creature from Hell was minister for most of my life."

"Um, please remember this is a church," Quasimodo reprimanded. "Even if that is a fitting term."

"Definitely fitting," Minerva growled.

By now they had passed the bridge between the two towers and were now climbing up the ladder that led to Quasimodo's room. The ascending took quite a bit of time due to the fact that Minerva had to drag the dress with her, but all the while neither of them spoke. It wasn't until they reached Quasimodo's dwelling area that he finally brought himself to speak again.

"Here," he said simply, "this is my home."

Minerva shifted her eyes from the bits of colored light dancing on the floor to the broken statue pieces being used as furniture, to the pools of light reflected off of the bells, and finally to the intricate carved city. As she took in each detail, her breath slowed down a bit.

"Is something wrong?" Quasimodo asked.

"What makes you think something would be wrong?" Minerva replied as she stepped into the room. "Don't you get taken aback when you encounter something so beautiful?"

"Beautiful?" Quasimodo repeated.

"Yes," said Minerva, "absolutely beautiful."

Beautiful. Quasimodo had heard that word the last time he showed a woman his home. As with the previous time, his heartrate quickened and his stomach danced. Why did he still feel so awkward to have a stranger in his home? He was tempted to hide behind a beam, as he did with Esmeralda, but he found that he couldn't move. His eyes were gazing at Minerva.

She still didn't spark like Esmeralda, but the light reflecting off her earrings gave her cheeks a bit of glow. Her narrow eyes couldn't open as widely as Esmeralda's, and yet they still took everything in. Quasimodo decided that, although she didn't spark like Esmeralda, she was not as plain as he had first thought. With the colored light dancing on her face she looked quite pretty indeed.

Minerva turned to face Quasimodo and cleared her throat. "I've come here to ask a favor of you."

"A favor of me?" Quasimodo repeated.

"Well to be specific, it's a favor that my brother has asked of me which requires me to ask a favor of you." She held up the unfinished dress. "These old bedsheets of Mother's wish to become a wedding dress for Esmeralda. Trouble is, they wish to be a surprise wedding dress and the little room at the boarding house is unfit to hide them. So that's where you come in."

"You want me to hide them here?" Quasimodo guessed.

"Exactly," Minerva replied. "But only with your consent, of course. I would pay you for it."

"Pay me?" Quasimodo exclaimed. "Y-you don't need to pay me. I'm more than happy to help out."

"Really?" said Minerva. "Perhaps I've failed to mention that I'd need to come here every day to work on the dress. You will reconsider the payment offer once you've become acquainted with me and found out what a troublesome creature I am. My whole family has a reputation for being difficult - why do you think we send our sons to the military? Of course, you've already been acquainted with a member of my family, so he probably gave you a taste of how troublesome we are."

"W-well...would you please take a seat?" Quasimodo offered, then he realized that the only "seats" he had were buckets and stools and old statue pieces. What would she have to say about that?

Apparently nothing. Minerva sat down on a statue head as easily as if it were a large inviting armchair. Her skirt draped over the head, giving the illusion that she was sitting on air.

"Now," she began, "I expect that I should work here an hour or two a day. While I'm not here, you will be in charge of hiding the dress."

Quasimodo nodded. "I-I have plenty of room."

"I can see that," said Minerva. "At least that tyrant gave you a large space."

Quasimodo sighed slightly. "A large space that I could never leave. Any large space begins to shrink after you haven't left it for twenty years."

"My brother has told me some of your story," said Minerva. "The Festival of Fools thing, the burning of Paris, how you saved his life by stashing him under a table, the revolution against Frollo, all that. It's a very interesting story, but there was one thing my brother was unable to explain."

"What?"

"How did you end up here in the first place? Or better still, how did that menace end up as your guardian?"

Quasimodo was silent. Not because he was shy, but because he had never uttered this shadowy story before. How could he begin when he only knew bits and pieces of this story?

"M-my...my mother died when I was a baby. I don't know who my father was." He paused for a moment. "W-well, a-actually, I don't really know who my mother was either. She was a gypsy, I know that, but not much else."

"A gypsy?" Minerva interrupted with an interested face. "Do you think she knew the people who killed my father?"

Quasimodo wasn't prepared for that question. "Uh...I-I don't know. I-I d-d-don't know who k-killed your father."

"A group of gypsy men beat him to death in 1456."

"My mother died in 1462."

"So you're twenty-one then?"

"Uh, I guess," Quasimodo said unsurely. "I don't know for sure."

"I'm twenty-eight," said Minerva. "I know I don't look it, but I'm old, and I've seen a lot even for a girl my age. Of course, I haven't seen as much as my brother, seeing as how he served in the army."

Quasimodo was a bit frazzled by her rapid shifting of subjects. "Uh...anyway, I grew up believing the story Frollo told me about how my mother abandoned me as an infant and he was the only one with the compassion to take me in. It wasn't until just before he died that I found out the truth. My mother died at Frollo's hand, and he took me in not out of charity, but out of fear for his soul."

Minerva nodded. "Sounds about right. That black heart could never do anything out of compassion. Which brings me to my next question. How did you ever learn it?"

"Learn what?"

"Compassion," said Minerva. "You are obviously rich with it, and your guardian had none of it. How did you ever learn compassion when Frollo was all you knew?"

"He wasn't all I knew!" argued Quasimodo. "I had plenty of other teachers."

"Like who?"

"Like the wind," explained Quasimodo. "When I was young I'd sometimes hear a swift but gentle breeze whipping its way through the tower and making the bells give a faint sound. After I became the bellringer, I'd use that same technique - be swift but gentle. And of course, the bells taught me a lot as well."

"The bells?"

"Yes," continued Quasimodo. "The bells taught me how to fly. After I got them ringing I would sometimes leap onto one of them and let her carry me back and forth. They would each give me a different ride, but I think my favorite was Big Marie."

"Big Marie?"

"The largest bell. When she carries me, sometimes I feel as though I'm riding on the wings of a gale - the next best thing to flying. Big Marie taught me that moments of joy could exist anywhere, even in my miserable life. But back to your question, I think the ones who really taught me compassion were the birds."

"The birds?" asked Minerva, who was beginning to feel like an echo point.

"Birds would fly into the tower every day, looking for food or shelter" said Quasimodo. "They'd be everywhere. Those poor little creatures looked so cold and hungry that I just couldn't help myself; I had to help them. It was an instinct or something. Sometimes I found myself giving up my entire breakfast for them. Soon they started building their nests up in the rafters and around the gargoyles. We couldn't speak each other's language, but a bond still grew: we didn't need words to communicate." He sighed. "Those were different days, when my only friends were the bells, the birds, and the gargoyles."

Minerva gave another smile so wide that dimples appeared at the edges of her mouth. "Half-formed, eh?" she said. "I think not. You're probably the most fully-formed person in this city."

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. Like I told you, I've seen a lot, but in all my years I've never met anyone who comes as close to being fully-formed as you."

"Uh, haven't you ever met anyone who is 'fully-formed'?" asked Quasimodo, unsure about what she meant.

"Of course not!" answered Minerva. "No one on this earth is truly fully-formed. No matter what one tries to make of himself, he will never be fully-formed."

"So I suppose you aren't fully formed?"

"Dearie me, of course I'm not!" said Minerva, as though the very notion of her being fully-formed was foolish. "I wouldn't be fully-formed anyway, but I'm a twin, and twins are never as close to being fully-formed as other people. We have to share our crucial development period in the womb with someone else, thus formation falls short."

"So Phoebus isn't fully-formed either?"

"Definitely not, I think that's obvious. It will also be obvious with me once you get to know me," Minerva stated, but then she quickly added, "But he left the womb five minutes before me, so I'm a bit more formed than he is."

Quasimodo found himself grinning at that statement. "So, how formed do you think Frollo was?" he asked after a moment.

"Not at all," replied Minerva. "That devil's child had no sense of anything except hatred. But the worst thing is that he believe he was fully-formed. The most dangerous thing in the world is someone who believes he is fully-formed. With the belief that righteousness is always on his side, almost nothing can stop him from doing whatever he pleases."

Quasimodo nodded, finally understanding what she meant. Meanwhile, Minerva's eyes had drifted down to the miniature city on the table.

"Did you make these yourself?" she asked.

Quasimodo had been asked this question once before by the first one to ever treat him as an equal. He remembered how awkward he had felt, how he had wished that Esmeralda would simply leave and allow him to return to his life of misery. Now so much had changed in his life, but he was still embarrassed to reveal things to a practical stranger.

"Y-yes...yes I did," he stammered.

"They're lovely," she said as she examined the figures. "You must have great talent. Where did you learn how to do this?"

The bellringer took a few moments to speak. "W-well...I-I don't know exactly. My mast...I mean Frollo was always telling me that I should entertain myself."

"So what did you do?"

"Well, I didn't know what to do at first, but then one day I found an old knife. I don't know where it came from, but it was sent here to save me. I began my awkward attempts to carve logs into shapes...and after a while Frollo discovered what I was doing and well...he started providing me with wood and teaching me a few things about carving better. After a while I was learning for myself, and I made this little replica of the city I could never visit."

"He probably taught you so you'd keep yourself out of trouble," concluded Minerva.

"Maybe so, but it turned out to be a skill that saved me. Sometimes I think I would have gone mad if I wasn't able to work with my hands like I did."

Minerva nodded. "At least that black heart could recognize talent..." she stopped in mid-sentence when she noticed a particular figure. "...ooh, this one's my brother, isn't it?"

"Uh, y-yes."

"You capture him very well. Since his personality is so wooden, it's fitting for all of him to be wooden as well."

Quasimodo found himself laughing despite attempts to control himself.

. . . . . .

The whole afternoon was spent in the tower chatting about various things. Quasimodo soon decided that Minerva was quite warm and amiable once you got to know her. She stayed in the tower until well past sunset.

"Oh," she exclaimed, as though she was just now realizing it was dark outside. "I've stayed much longer than I intended."

"Hey, it's all right," Quasimodo said in a relaxed tone. "I've really enjoyed it."

Minerva was in the process of placing the unfinished dress on the table, but she managed to flash one of her extremely-wide smiles at Quasimodo. "I have too." She started heading for the ladder. "I'll see you tomorrow, Quasi."


	10. Chapter 10

AN: Well, not much to say, except man, I never realized how long this thing was until I saw its FFN word count. And I'm still not done uploading all the old chapters.

"Second Chances"

by EsmeAmelia

Chapter 10

As the days went by, Quasimodo started to become quite fond of Minerva. Any shields of awkwardness or shyness that he had up against her were quick to vanish. He found himself eagerly awaiting her daily visits to the tower. Likewise, Minerva often found herself heading for the tower early in the morning, sometimes before she had breakfast, which meant that Quasimodo would share his breakfast with her. She would work on the dress for an hour or two while she and Quasimodo chatted about any and all subjects. It always amazed Quasimodo how she could carry on a conversation without disturbing her work.

Nearly every day, after an hour or two of work, Minerva and Quasimodo would spend time together touring the city and seeing the sights, occasionally running into Esmeralda and Phoebus on one of their romantic outings. Minerva did insist on paying Quasimodo, but he would usually spend that money on meals for the two of them while they toured Paris. Staying out until long after sunset was a common occurrence - Minerva often returned to the boarding house to find that Phoebus had fallen asleep in one of the chairs while waiting for her. As the wedding dress gradually took shape, so too did a bond between Quasimodo and Minerva.

_"Der Katz,"_ Minerva said one morning as she pointed to a small black cat sitting on a vacant table outside of the bakery. She and Quasimodo were seated at one of the other tables, alternately enjoying a meal and having a lesson in German.

_"Der Katz," _Quasimodo repeated.

_"Ja,"_ complimented Minerva. Then she tilted her head to the side and raised her brows, which sent a signal to Quasimodo that he would now have to describe the cat - in German.

"Hmm," he began. _"Der Katz istz..."_ He paused. What was the word for "black," again? It started with an S, didn't it? He squinted at the cat for a moment, as though that would make him remember. _"Uh...Der Katz istz..."_ he began again. He ground his teeth, frustrated at this block in his mind. He knew the word, he knew it...it was..._"Schwartz," _he finally remembered.

_"Ja, zehr gut,"_ complimented Minerva.

_"Der Katz istz klinne,"_ continued Quasimodo.

_"Ja,"_ said Minerva. "The cat is little."

Quasimodo wasn't sure exactly why he wanted to learn German. Maybe he was fascinated by the sound of the words. Maybe he enjoyed learning a new language. Or maybe he simply wanted to spend more time with Minerva. He was about to try describing the cat again, but the cat's owner picked him up off the table and carried him away.

"Enough German for now," said Minerva. "This cake on our plates does not wish to become stale."

_"Ja_ - I mean yes," said Quasimodo."

And speaking of cake," continued Minerva, "do you know who will be making the wedding cake?"

"No, but I imagine it will be one of the gypsies. The wedding will be held in the cathedral, but the reception will be decked with Gypsy traditions."

"I know," said Minerva. "Don't you think the wedding is the subject of all my brother's sentences?"

Quasimodo simply grinned at that statement. In truth, it seemed that the upcoming wedding between the former captain and the gypsy dancer was the subject of everyone's sentences. No one could recall there ever being a wedding like this before, thus it was indeed an event, perhaps an event that would never again occur in their lifetimes. Many dubbed it as "the joining of two worlds," although there were a few who relentlessly called it "a devil's wedding."

"Anyhow," said Minerva, "would you like to learn a few phrases that are relevant to the event?"

"Of course," said Quasimodo.

"All right," Minerva said as she stuck her fork into her cake. "I'll never have any use for these phrases, so I don't mind passing them on to you."

"Why not?" asked Quasimodo.

Minerva hastily stuffed a rather large piece of cake into her mouth, as though she thought any lingering would spoil the food beyond edibility.

"Well, why not?" Quasimodo repeated.

Minerva's mouth made very slight chewing motions: barely moving at all, as though swallowing would cause her to choke to death. It seemed like a good two minutes went by before the mushed cake in her mouth became unbearable and forced her to swallow.

"I have neither reason nor ability to marry," she finally said between short breaths. "I'm fully able to support myself with my dressmaking, so I don't need a husband to earn money. Mother has three other children to carry on the family line..."

"Four," interrupted Quasimodo.

"Three," insisted Minerva. "She kicked Phoebus out, remember? In addition, she also believes I'm dead, so I have no obligation to make sure the family line continues. And aside from all that, I'm twenty-eight years of age, which is far too old for a woman to marry. All single men want younger women."

Quasimodo didn't think her age would have anything to do with her ability to attract a husband. One could not tell she was twenty-eight simply by looking at her, and besides, she had an innate charm that surely would overpower any stigma about her age.

"I may be too old to have any use for these phrases, but you are not," continued Minerva. "So here they are. _Mann _means husband. _Frau_ means wife. And _Ich leibe dich_means 'I love you.'"

Quasimodo did his best to repeat the phrases. _"Mann. Frau. Ich leibe..."_

"Stop," interrupted Minerva. "Don't use that last phrase on me. Save it for your true love."

What sort of cruel joke was she playing? How could she possibly think that he had more chance of finding a soulmate than she did? She was normal-looking and gregarious - both of which were traits that he completely lacked. The fact that she was seven years older than him carried no weight.

Minerva seemed to sense that she had touched something sensitive. She cleared her throat and said, "Quasi, would you mind going somewhere with me?"

"Why?"

"I have something I want to show you."

. . . . . .

"Minerva, where is this thing you want to show me?" Quasimodo asked as the two of them explored the graveyard.

"Patience, Quasi, it's around here somewhere." She took long steps in various directions as she surveyed the field of final resting places. "Goodness, it's amazing how everything looks the same around here."

"You don't remember where it is?'

"I'm sure I can find it," Minerva said hastily. "Give me a minute - I haven't been here in ten years and...oh, here it is."

She motioned to Quasimodo to join her in front of a large gravestone. The instant he arrived, his eyes grew wide when he noticed the lettering on the stone. It was the grave of Captain Pierre de Chateaupers'.

"This...this was your father?" he said timidly.

Minerva nodded as she ran her fingers along the edge of the stone. "Every Sunday, Mother used to take us all to see our father's resting place, although it was usually a disaster because Phoebus and I and our little brother Ulysses would often get restless and start climbing on the other stones. A few times we were actually chased away for disturbing an internment."

Quasimodo let a small laugh escape before growing serious again. He watched silently as Minerva gazed solemnly at the stone.

"Did Phoebus ever show you this?" she asked after a few minutes.

"No, in fact he never even talked about his family until Christmas." He pondered for a moment. "But...if his father was buried here, why didn't he ever come to see the grave?"

"I know why," said Minerva. "He's like me - he has no memory of his father, and thus he has no grief. Why pretend to mourn someone you remember nothing of? It is duty, not emotion, that would drive either of us here. I'm sure he probably had intentions of visiting here, but his days filled up with things that were more important to him."

Quasimodo tried to imagine what he would have done if there had been a grave for his mother here. Would he have allowed other things to distract him from visiting her resting place? He thought that he would be more interested in his mother than Minerva was in her father. His mother had sacrificed herself for him, and yet he didn't even know her name. It was a piece of his past that he could never get back, not just a stranger who only deserved a dutiful glimpse.

"Father, I wish I could have known you," Minerva whispered.

They both stared at the grave for what seemed to be an especially lingering moment, until Quasimodo felt the urge to end this dutiful moment for the dead. He gently took Minerva's hand. "Minerva," he said. "Would you mind coming with me? I have something to show you as well."

Minerva smiled. "I'd love to see it."

"All right." He hastily led Minerva over to the other side of the graveyard, where a particularly large and forbidding stone with no lettering stood. "Here," he said. "This used to be the entrance to the Court of Miracles, the gypsies' secret hideout."

"The Court of Miracles!" Minerva exclaimed, her eyes glowing with delight.

"Uh...y-yes," said Quasimodo, a bit puzzled by her reaction. "Uh, you know about it?"

"Of course," replied Minerva. "It was a well-known legend all around Paris."

"W-w-well," Quasimodo continued, "there was a secret method of entering that was only known by the..." He was cut off by the sound of heavy stone sliding to the ground - Minerva had pushed the lid off the false gravestone, revealing the stairway that led underground.

"I guess you're better at figuring things out than your brother," he finished.

Minerva gazed down at the tunnel with excitement. "Shall we go in? I'd like to see the Court of Miracles."

"There's nothing to see down there anymore," said Quasimodo.

"Why not?"

"It's all been destroyed by fire. After Frollo discovered this place, he had it burned so that it could never be used again. All that remains are bones and some pieces of burnt wood."

Minerva seemed to lose control of her breath. "Oh my god..." she whispered between gasps, "...oh my god...it's all been destroyed..." She ran her fingers ever-so-slowly along the edge of the stone and gazed mournfully at the tunnel. "It's all been destroyed."

"Yes," said Quasimodo. "It's all been destroyed."

"It's all been destroyed..." Minerva repeated.

Quasimodo was greatly confused by Minerva's behavior. Why had she only given her father's grave a dutiful glimpse, but given the Court of Miracles and honest grieving? Although she had never known her father, they were still connected by blood, while the Court of Miracles had been nothing but a story. Yet here she was, staring at the Court of Miracles as though it was a dead loved one. Minerva breathed loudly and blinked rapidly, as though she were struggling not to cry. Her breath gradually decreased its intensity until she seemed to have gained a bit of composure.

"Well," she said between inhales, "shall we move on?"

. . . . . .

In the hour of nightfall, Minerva stood on a bridge, leaning over the rail, staring down at the dark waters of the Seine beneath her, which distorted her reflection and the reflection of the waxing moon. Her eyes were motionless, gazing at nothing, tranced by the steady motion of the river. Time seemed to halt itself in the river. She might have stood there a few seconds...or a minute...or an hour...or a day. None of it could be differentiated in the river.

The river's wavering movement seemed to hypnotize her, calling her away from the real world and into the unchanging world of the water. The serene ripples on the surface coaxed her lips to move in the same way, drawing a soft song out of them.

At this moment, Quasimodo happened to be walking past the bridge when Minerva's song brushed past his ear. In song, the voice was unrecognizable to him, but there was a bit of familiarity to it. He paused in his movement and strained his ear to hear the words, only to discover that the words were in German. Though he could not understand the meaning, the music seemed to have a melancholy, nostalgic feel to it. He unconsciously moved toward the source of the song, anxious to discover the singer's identity.

"Minerva?" he exclaimed.

Minerva immediately broke the spell that the river had on her, halting her music and jerking her head up to face Quasimodo."Qu-qu-quasi?" she stammered. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

Quasimodo suddenly felt very intrusive to have walked in on a moment where she obviously wanted solitude. "Uh...I-I heard your singing, and y-you had such a l-lovely voice that..."

Minerva raised a hand to hush him. She held the hand in the air for a moment or two before slowly lowering it down of the rail and pressing all but one of her fingers against her palm, silently telling Quasimodo to look down at the river. He leaned over the rail and gazed down at his wavy reflection tinted by the moonlight.

"Have you ever thought about water, Quasi," Minerva said in a hushed voice.

Quasimodo looked up at her. "What do you mean?"

Minerva pressed her hand against his cheek and pushed his head back down to facing the water. "We all need water to survive. Water - it sustains our lives, and yet we can drown in it. Such an odd paradox, that the very thing that preserves our lives can also end them."

A lingering silence followed that statement, the sort of silence that seems to be more than merely an absence of sound, the sort of silence that seems to hover in the air, making the mind hesitant to break it. During this silence, Quasimodo stared down at his reflection, repeating Minerva's words in his head without pondering their meaning, for the river had tranced him as well. It took him a long moment to realize that Minerva's reflection had vanished. He looked up to see Minerva standing a few feet away from him with her body in a twisted position, as though she were turning to leave but had something else to say first.

"The river saves lives, but it also kills," she said in a monotonous voice. "People are like that as well." With that cryptic remark, she turned and walked away, vanishing into the darkness.

. . . . . .

"Melenie, hurry up!" Esmeralda called. "We're going to be late for the wedding rehearsal!"

"Forgive me for being made to carry all this stuff," Melenie grunted as she struggled with the boxes she was carrying.

"Patience, cherie," said Clopin. "You and I both know that if they dare begin the wedding rehearsal without the bride, I shall be sending them to the gallows."

Esmeralda might have rolled her eyes at that statement or made a sarcastic response, but at that moment, her feet suddenly froze and her eyes widened. Her mind became unaware of Clopin, Melenie, her wedding rehearsal, or anything else other than the house in front of her with the forbidding bars in its lone window.

Clopin understood what was happening. "Esmeralda," he said gently, "just move quickly by."

Esmeralda was vaguely aware of Clopin's voice urging her to move, but her body could not obey that command. Her breath came out in uneven gasps as she heard the mad one throwing herself against the walls within the house and wailing out curses. Her feet seemed to plant invisible roots in the ground to prevent her from moving.

By now Melenie had caught up with them and noticed what was occurring. She placed her boxes on the ground and gently clasped Esmeralda's stiff hand. "Esmeralda," she whispered, "it's all right. Come on, we can pass her together."

Esmeralda's unblinking eyes were staring at the house, but she still had enough presence of mind to manage a small nod. She clung tightly to her friend's hand as they moved closer to the cursed house.

"DAMN BITCH, GET AWAY FROM MY HOUSE!"

The wicked voice from behind the bars suddenly stimulated Esmeralda to move faster. Now it was she who was leading Melenie, instead of the other way around. Her legs broke into a sprint as she dragged Melenie past the window as though the bars were about to attack them. It wasn't until they were far away that she was willing to slow down.

"Esmeralda," Melenie panted, "exactly what is it with you and her? I never see you like this except when she's around. Why does she terrify you so?"

Esmeralda gave a long sigh. "I've been trying to figure that out for a long time. When she's around...something inside me freezes. It's like there's an invisible wall around me that prevents me from defending myself."

Clopin walked up to them. "Don't be too hard on her, cherie. She's suffered more than you realize."

"What do you mean?" asked Melenie.

Clopin gave a small exhale. "According to the stories, she was once beautiful. She's not as old as she appears to be - fifty at the very most. The premature aging came from her suffering."

The two women gave intrigued looks.

"Now as I said," continued Clopin, "she was once beautiful. Too beautiful. She attracted the worst kinds of men. They harassed her, humiliated her, and finally...one of them forced her into a sexual relationship."

"Who?" asked Esmeralda.

Clopin sighed and glanced downward. "You two must understand that every group of people will have a few scoundrels living among them."

"What does that have to do with this?" asked Melenie.

Clopin sighed again. "According to the stories, she was raped by one of our own kind."

Esmeralda and Melenie simultaneously gasped.

"I know it's horrible to think of," said Clopin. "Our people generally detest sexual abuse, but as I said, every group will have a few scoundrels living among them. Who the man was, I do not know, but it is said that he gave her a child."

The nerves in Melenie's stomach started churning at the thought of one of their own kind abusing a woman. The nerves in Esmeralda's stomach started churning at the thought of that mad creature bearing a child.

"And yet, through that horrible experience came her saving grace," Clopin continued. "She loved that little girl with all her soul - her every moment was spent caring for the child. She would take the infant out into the streets for the townspeople to gush over. And gush they did. The child was as beautiful as her mother, and she attracted the same kind of attention: the wrong kind."

"What happened to her?" asked Esmeralda.

Clopin gave another long sigh. "Now listen, I do not know whether or not this story is true, but it is said that she showed the infant to some gypsies, and...the following night the child vanished."

Esmeralda's eyes bulged.

"It is unknown whether or not a gypsy had anything to do with it, I want to make that quite clear, but one way or another her child vanished, and that incident drove her to insanity. All she loved, all she had to live for, was now gone forever."

"Is that why she hates us?" said Melenie.

Clopin nodded. "It is said that she believes our people stole her child and devoured her flesh."

Neither Esmeralda nor Melenie could find any words with which to respond. That hellish creature had suddenly gained a more human image. Esmeralda was particularly bewildered by the notion. An odd dizziness entered her head, as though her mind was refusing to accept that there might be a bit of humanity in that creature.

Clopin could sense her discomfort, so he thought it best to alter the subject."Come you two," he said. "We don't want to be late for the wedding rehearsal."

. . . . .

"Come on Quasi, can't I look now?" said Esmeralda.

"Not just yet," said Quasimodo. He had his hands over Esmeralda's eyes to ensure no peeking while Phoebus got the wedding dress. In truth, he was growing even more anxious than she was, for the feeling of her soft skin against his hands was sending shivers through his body. Waves of tingles pulsated through his body as his heart increased its pace. He wanted so much to run his fingers down her, to press his lips against her flesh, to feel every inch of her body around him in the most intimate way. This was not an unfamiliar feeling - he had felt it so many times before, and he had been out of the tower long enough to understand what it was. He wanted to love Esmeralda - not just emotionally, but physically. This made the next day even more difficult for him. Tomorrow night Esmeralda would be touched by a man, but not by him. Never by him. With the stiffness he was feeling at the moment, that thought seemed almost unbearable. And yet, somewhere deep inside his head, he knew that he possessed the strength to handle it. He concentrated on finding that strength.

"All right Quasi, you can let go of her now."

Phoebus's voice jolted Quasimodo out of his thoughts - he hadn't noticed him entering with the finished dress in hand. He reluctantly removed his hands from Esmeralda's eyes.

Esmeralda gasped in delight when she saw what her husband-to-be had in his arms. She slowly reached out to touch the soft satin fabric as Phoebus let it fall out of his hand so she could see the dress's full beauty.

No one could ever tell that the dress was made out of old bedsheets - Minerva's talent as a seamstress shown through. The fabric seemed to shine and glisten, as though it were producing its own light. The elbow-length sleeves were cut with a curving pattern, adding personality to the sleeves. The bodice had a complex design embroidered on it: a dancing mixture of curves, swirls, buds, and flowers. Accompanying the dress was a long veil that Minerva had made out of her own material and a gold necklace that Minerva had donated.

"It's beautiful," Esmeralda murmured as she threw her arms around Phoebus. "Thank you so much."

Phoebus absorbed the embrace for a moment or two, but then he pulled back. "I'm not really the one to thank here. Yes, I had the idea, but someone else did all the work."

"Who?"

Phoebus extended his arm, signaling Minerva to step out of the shadows.

"You?" asked Esmeralda with a raised brow.

"You know," said Minerva, "talking in single words doesn't get too many points across, but yes, I made you that present. Sewed every last stitch in it, and those stitches will not come undone, even if you were to tie one end to a pole and have a horse pull on the other end, but I wouldn't suggest trying that."I

n truth, Esmeralda was having a hard time believing that the seemingly flippant Minerva had obviously put a lot of time and patience into making the dress - she had not gotten the best impression from their meeting.

"Well...thank you, Minerva," she managed to say.

"Oh, I'm not really the one to thank either," said Minerva.

Esmeralda raised both brows. "Well then, is there anyone I _can_ thank?"

"Of course," said Minerva as she extended her arm to Quasimodo. "You can thank it not for him, none of it would have been possible."

Esmeralda warmly touched Quasimodo's cheek and looked into his eyes. "Thank you, Quasi."

Quasimodo again concentrated on finding that strength.


	11. Chapter 11

AN: Thanks to the reviewers! Anyway, the lyrics in this chapter are from "As Long As There's A Moon," another deleted song from HoND (check it out on YouTube - it's lovely). The lyrics are written by the great Stephen Schwartz, with a few slight alterations by me. I thought it would be great if an actual HoND sequel that showed Esmeralda and Phoebus's wedding (and you know, was actually GOOD) used that song, but well, we have to settle for fanfiction.

"Second Chances"

by EsmeAmelia

Chapter 11

"Good morning Apollo. Time to get your chariot!"

Phoebus rolled over in bed and groggily opened one eye to find that he was staring up at the cheery face of Minerva, who was seated on the end of his bed, already wearing her finest blue dress.

"Rise and shine!" she said in her perky voice. "It's time to begin the most important day of your life!"

"I don't recall asking you to get me up," mumbled Phoebus.

"Well if I hadn't, you would have slept through your own wedding!" said Minerva. "What would Esmy have said?"

"Perhaps she would have rejoiced because she wouldn't have you for a sister-in-law."

"Oh, that was sweet," scoffed Minerva. "I can tell you're all happy and excited about the big day."

"I am when I'm ready," muttered Phoebus, turning over and closing his eyes.

"Come on," Minerva said in a rather loud voice as she pulled the pillow out from under his head. "You know, you're very bad at this groom thing. Don't you know that the groom is supposed to be unable to sleep on the night before his wedding? He's supposed to lie awake all night thinking about his bride!"

"For your information, I _did!"_ growled Phoebus.

"Well, that explains why you're so cheerful this morning," Minerva laughed. "Anyway, I'll leave you to get dressed now. Maybe I'll go pay a little visit to the best man." She threw the pillow down on his head and scampered out of the room.

"Fine, go pay a little visit to the best man," Phoebus said as he struggled to get out from under the pillow. "Go plan another wedding. I don't care." He flipped the pillow back under his head and went back to sleep.

. . . . .

Meanwhile, the bride could have no such luxury as sleeping late. Since the very first rays of dawn had appeared on the horizon, all the gypsies had been bustling about with wedding preparations. All age groups were busy, from the gypsy elders, who chanted out blessings for the marriage, to the children, who gathered flowers to be used as decorations, handing some of them to Esmeralda to be used in her bouquet. Esmeralda would kindly sniff each flower, pat the child who had given it to her on the head, and add it to her already large bouquet. Her bridesmaids told her that the flowers were becoming quite a large load, but she would only smile.

Musicians could be heard in every direction as they practiced their instruments, creating a rather jumbled background sound for the preparations. In addition to the music, the decorations, the tables, and even the food were in their first stages of development.

Throughout all the hustle, the bride and her maid of honor remained somewhat calm, or at least it seemed that way to their fellow gypsies.

"Are you nervous?" Melenie asked as she rubbed Esmeralda's shoulders.

"The smell of flowers calms me down," replied Esmeralda with her nose in her bouquet.

Melenie eyed the flowers. "You know, you should probably get those in water so they'll last until tonight."

Esmeralda nodded. "You're right."

"I'll get a jug and we can fetch some water at the river."

"Be sure it's not the one we're going to break tonight!" joked Esmeralda.

Melenie laughed as she ducked inside her tent. "How's this one?" she asked as she emerged with a jug in her hand.

"Perfect," said Esmeralda.

The two made their way to a small stream that flowed just outside the Gypsy camp and knelt down at the bank. Melenie dipped the jug into the stream, filling it with cool water.

Esmeralda slipped her flowers into the jug. "Beautiful," she murmured.

"Beautiful like the bride," said Melenie as she let one foot slip out from under her and dip into the stream.

"Or beautiful like the bridesmaid," said Esmeralda, also letting her feet slip into the stream, hoping the cool water would calm her nerves.

"Which bridesmaid? You have four of them!" said Melenie, dipping in her other foot.

"The maid of honor, of course," said Esmeralda as she leaned back to absorb the morning sunrays. It felt good to be able to relax for a moment before she'd have to hectically get herself ready for the wedding. The fish in the pond tickled her heels with their fins as they flicked past her. The light morning breeze cooled her face, helping her to resist the temptation to jump in the water. The thick odor of the daisies and carnations that grew around the stream filled her nostrils with sweetness. In this lingering moment, she for once wasn't thinking about her husband to be, but simply absorbing the beauty of the place.

"Esmeralda! Melenie!"

The sound of Quasimodo's voice brought her back to reality. "Quasimodo?" she called.

Quasimodo ran up to the two gypsies, wearing a rather amused look on his face. "Soaking your feet for the party?"

"Well...we were fetching water for Esmeralda's bouquet, but we kind of...got distracted," admitted Melenie.

"Distracted by the relaxing water, I see," said Quasimodo. "Anyway...Minerva!"

The women turned to find Minerva heading toward them, and she looked like she was already dressed for the wedding.

"Quasi!" she called. "What a coincidence - I was just coming to see you."

"Really? Well I was just coming to see your brother..." said Quasimodo, "...a-and you!" he quickly added.

"Ah, so the best man wanted to help the groom calm himself," said Minerva.

"You might say that," said Quasimdo.

Meanwhile Esmeralda and Melenie reluctantly took their feet out of the water and rose. Esmeralda picked up her jug of flowers, and the two gypsy girls walked away, barely being noticed by Quasimodo and Minerva.

"Well, I can certainly see how this stream can distract you from your duties," said Minerva, discreetly stepping out of her shoes.

"Yes - you're getting distracted yourself," said Quasimodo, though his own feet were stepping out of his shoes as well.

Minerva sat down on the bank and dipped her feet into the water. "Well, my current duty was to pay you a visit, and since you're here, I've fulfilled that duty."

Quasimodo found himself sitting down next to her without really thinking. As he stuck his feet into the water, his head remained turned to the side, gazing at Minerva and how elegant she looked sitting among the flowers with her feet in the sparkling pond.

"It's...it's lovely here," he began.

"Mmm-hmm," Minerva replied lazily. Her right hand slowly slipped out from under her and gently plucked a carnation from its stem. Her left hand then reached over and wrapped its soft fingers around Quasimodo's wrist.

"Here," she said, carefully opening Quasimodo's fingers and dropping the flower into his palm, "the best man should have a flower in his lapel tonight."

Quasimodo was briefly at a loss for words as he felt the soft petals given to him by an even softer hand. He looked up at Minerva for a second, as though confused about what to do next.

"Is something wrong?" asked Minerva. "Haven't you ever been given a flower before?"

"Actually...no," said Quasimdo. "But I think when someone gives you a flower you're supposed to thank them."

"Yes, that's usually the way things go."

"Well then, thank you," Quasimodo said awkwardly. He felt that a somehow a simple thank you wasn't enough to show gratitude for this gift. It was a piece of nature, after all. No polite little thank you could repay it.

After a moment or two, he stretched his hand out and plucked the biggest carnation within his reach. With a sweeping motion of his arm, he handed the flower to Minerva.

"Here," he said, " you should have something pretty for the wedding also."

Minerva gave another one of her extremely wide smiles as she took the flower. Dimples again appeared on her cheeks at the ends of her mouth. She held the flower up to her nose and deeply inhaled the sweet odor.

"Thank you, Quasi," she sighed as she braided the flower into her hair.

Quasimodo continued gazing at her and admiring how the pink petals complemented her golden hair. And how the reflections of the pond's ripples doing their hypnotic dance were so elegant on her face. And how her skirt spread over the grass creased just right. He knew he should be moving on with his duties and assisting with the wedding preparations, but movement seemed impossible. He was tranced by this moment of tranquility, and also, he was fiddling with a bit of confusion.

He had previously thought that people only gave each other flowers if they were in love.

. . . . . . . .

"Quasi, how do I look?"

"Phoebus, you look fine! I've only told you that five times!"

"Oh Quasi, he can't help it," chided Minerva. "A man's wedding day is the only time when he'll spend hours in front of the mirror."

"Yes, but I don't imagine it's usually a mirror in the hallway of a boarding house."

The bellringer and the twins were standing in the boarding house hallway as they all awaited the carriage that would escort them to Notre Dame for the wedding. Phoebus had been spending most of the time pacing up and down the hall and fussing with his hair in a mirror on the wall.

"Well, he can't help it if there's no mirror in his room," said Minerva. "But, if you want me to calm him down, I can give it a try." She walked over to Phoebus and stepped between him and the mirror. "Here," she said, touching his shoulders. "Relax. I'd massage you, but you're wearing hard armor, so you'll just have to pretend I'm massaging you and relax by yourself."

"How helpful," Phoebus said sarcastically.

"Well, if you want me to be helpful, then I can offer you some advice," quipped Minerva. "At the alter, be sure that you say 'I do' and not 'I don't.' Don't let the armor rattle - that would be very embarrassing. And also," She gave a mischievous grin. "make sure the ring bearer doesn't steal your rings!"

"If the ring bearer does steal the rings, I'll blame you for teaching him!"

"Well if you find them in the cooking pot, you'll have yourself to blame there!"

"Hey, you two," interrupted Quasimodo, "I'm afraid I'll have to interrupt your little sibling bicker - our ride is here."

"Ohmygod!" exclaimed Phoebus. "Do I look all right?"

"Yes, yes," Quasimodo said quickly. "Now come on!"

The threesome scampered down the stairs and practically flew out the door. One by one, they piled into the carriage.

"Quasi?" Phoebus said as the carriage began to move.

"What?"

"How do I look?"

. . . . . . .

Quasimodo stood in the hall. He should be up in the tower, he knew that. The wedding would begin any minute now, and he had to ring the bells; he had no time to linger. He should be up in the tower...but his feet were frozen in place.

She was there.

Esmeralda stood a few feet away from Quasimodo, surrounded by her four bridesmaids. Her gorgeous black hair curled around her shoulders, contrasting with her white wedding gown. Her full red lips were curved upward into a content smile. Her beautiful, wonderful, marvelous emerald eyes shone like a bonfire on a winter's night.

Quasimodo gaped as she looked over at him and waved. He timidly waved back, mumbling something that sounded like, "Good luck, Esmeralda," then he had to use all his willpower to turn away. How could he still be smitten after over a year? He'd asked himself this question numerous times before, and though it had been less frequently in recent weeks, the answer still eluded him, perhaps because he would not admit the answer to himself. He slowly started to walk away from her.

"You loved her, didn't you?"

Quasimodo froze in shock, not simply because someone was watching him, but because he had just heard his greatest secret spoken aloud. After a moment or two, he gradually turned his head to face the speaker.

"Minerva?"

"You don't need to deny it, Quasi," said Minerva. "I can see it."

Quasimodo couldn't speak. His mouth went dry, partly out of surprise and partly out of shame. Shame of his envy, shame of self-pity, and shame of being witnessed. How could he have gazed at an engaged woman like that - and on her wedding day no less! What kind of weakling was he?

He felt especially shameful to have been caught by Minerva, whom he respected so deeply. It felt like he had insulted her by gaping at Esmeralda. He wanted to hide away, for he didn't deserve to be looked at by Minerva's royal blue eyes. What a worthless, disrespectful fool he was.

But Minerva didn't seem at all offended - or surprised. She gently placed a hand on Quasimodo's shoulder. "Quasi..." she said, "...it's all right."

Quasimodo still couldn't bring himself to speak.

"Love has a mind of its own, Quasi," Minerva continued. "And you're daft if you think you can control it. The reason why love strikes isn't always clear." She paused for a second and raised a brow while slightly turning her head, as though she was trying to convey something else without saying it aloud.

Quasimodo's mouth hung open, but not a word came out. What words would be a suitable response? His head dipped down in shame.

Minerva's hand slipped off Quasimodo's shoulder and lightly touched his chin, then she gently pushed his head up so that his eyes met hers.

"I-I'm...I'm sorry," he whispered.

Minerva's royal blue eyes gazed directly at his. "I fully understand, Quasimodo." With that remark, her hand slipped off his chin and her body walked away.

Quasimodo stared after her, ashamed of his behavior and puzzled by hers. What he wouldn't give to be able to travel a few minutes back in time and walk away from Esmeralda. Why was he so weak, so foolish, so insensitive? Shame on him!

At this moment he realized that he had never before felt ashamed of his feelings for Esmeralda, though she had loved another for over a year. Until now, he had thought of himself as a poor, heartbroken victim of lost love. Now, suddenly, he felt like a cad.

As he made his way up to the bells, the incident stayed inside his head despite efforts to drive it away, reminding Quasimodo of the true reality of his situation.

Esmeralda would never be his.

. . . . . . .

Up...down...up...down...Quasimodo feverously yanked on the bell rope to sound out the music of the wedding and announce the ceremony to the world. Many townspeople down below found the tone of the bells joyous, but a select few who were extremely familiar with his modes of bell-ringing heard a bit of an odd sound, like something was troubling the bell-ringer's mind. In truth, something was indeed troubling the bell-ringer's mind, which was hindering him from ringing the bells to the full potential.

The incident with Esmeralda kept gnawing at his mind. He knew fully-well that this had to be the end of it. After today Esmeralda would be a married woman - he had to let her go completely. He now saw how useless his self-pity was. Since he could not win her, he was only making himself miserable by dwelling on it. He nodded slightly to himself. Yes...it was time to move on.

Move on...it suddenly seemed so easy. Why hadn't he done it before? Why had he lingered on these feelings for so long? And for what purpose? Now that he had decided to move on, all that time he had spent dwelling on it seemed foolish.

He leapt off the bell rope and ran down the alter as quickly as he could, with expanded faith in the strength he knew he had.

. . . . . . . .

Notre Dame's worship area seemed brighter than it had ever been before. Perhaps it was because of the large amount of candles that were lit, or perhaps it was simply because of the celebration that was taking place within it. The organ music echoed around the sanctuary, adding on to the already-heavenly feel of the place.

Soon all eyes turned to Marie as she joyously skipped down the aisle, sprinkling flower petals on the floor to prepare for the coming of the bride. From his place at the alter next to Phoebus, Quasimodo grinned at the little girl, remembering how they had met, how she had led him to a new life of freedom.

The four bridesmaids followed Marie down the aisle, all dressed in sparkling Gypsy attire, causing a few eyes to widen. Bringing up the rear was Melenie, the maid of honor, wearing a warm smile on her face, but seeming a bit hesitant in her walk, as though she too was feeling a hint of sadness from this wedding.

Finally, the music intensified its volume, telling all present that the moment had come, causing all heads to anxiously turn to face the end of the aisle. After a moment or two, their looking was rewarded with the bride coming down the aisle in full splendor. She walked arm-in-arm with Clopin - the man who couldn't be her father, but who was close enough to being her father to give her away. The bouquet of flowers in her hands was so large that it seemed to burry her hands, making them invisible to the spectators and giving the impression that the flowers were floating on their own. Behind her, her train was being carried by two young gypsy orphans of whom Esmeralda was fond.

When Esmeralda arrived at the alter, the entire sanctuary was silenced, all absorbing the moment before the Archdeacon began his speech.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the joining of this man and this woman in matrimony..."

Quasimodo soon found that he was having difficulty paying attention to the Archdeacon's words. His eyes kept drifting past the bride and groom to one of the pews.

"Do you, Phoebus de Chateaupers', take La Esmeralda to be your lawfully wedded wife..."

The blonde head with the uneven waves seemed to be watching the happenings at the alter more intently than anyone else. The dimples that appeared when she smiled seemed to be permanently embedded in her cheeks.

"...until death do you part?"

"I do."

But this smile was oddly different from her usual smiles. It was more serene and relaxed.

"Do you, La Esmeralda, take Phoebus de Chateaupers' to be your lawfully wedded husband..."

Her eyes were firmly focused on the groom, with a calm, intense sparkle.

"...until death do you part?"

"I do."

With the blue of her dress and the pink carnation in her hair, she looked quite lovely. Maybe, just maybe, she could almost rival Esmeralda for beauty.

"If there be anyone present who can show cause why this couple should not be married, let him speak now or forever hold his peace."

It briefly passed through Quasimodo's mind that this was his moment. If he wanted to, he could state his objection and confess his feelings for Esmeralda. Maybe if she knew, she would...no, he couldn't think like that any longer. He could see the expression of total happiness on her face. That was worth more than his envy.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

As the bride and groom kissed, Quasimodo's eyes again drifted to where Minerva was seated. Her warm smile was still embedded in her face, and her lovely royal blue eyes were still serenely focused on the groom. No...wait, that couldn't be right. Quasimodo realized that the groom had moved a bit to kiss his bride, but Minerva's eyes were still focused in the same direction. Which meant...

She wasn't gazing at Phoebus. She was gazing at _him._

_. . . . . ._

The wedding reception was held in full splendor. The combined melodies of flutes, drums, lutes and tambourines filled the air with music, enhancing the magic of the night as Melenie and the other three bridesmaids danced in a circle as a tribute to the bride and groom. Later on, when the bride cut the wedding cake, the guests whooped and cheered so loudly that she accidentally slid her knife through the slice. They continued their cheering as she fed the slice to her new husband, slightly smearing his face, but before the crowd could notice, she discreetly wiped his face with a napkin.

Once the food had been served, Quasimodo took a seat at an empty table, where he was certain no one else would sit once they saw him there. Although most of the townspeople no longer treated him harshly, many were still uncomfortable close to him. He felt no anger or shame for it - he simply accepted it as a fact he couldn't change.

"Quasi, do you mind if I sit here?"

No sooner did he think no one would want to sit with him than someone did want to sit with him.

"Of course," he said, "you're more than welcome to sit here, Minerva."

Minerva slid into the bench across from him. Her eyes still had that same sparkle from the wedding, which made Quasimodo a bit nervous.

"Uh..." He cleared his throat. "...the bride and groom are about to dance, right?"

"Yes, I believe so," said Minerva. "In fact, here they come right now."

They both turned to face the square, where Esmeralda and Phoebus stood before the cheering crowd. They gave a slight bow as the musicians began their song, then they placed their hands on each other and allowed the music to carry them into a romantic dance. Merely a second after they began to move, some of the gypsies started singing to enhance the atmosphere.

"_La la la la la, la la la_

_Sing a wedding song tonight_

_For the pretty bride to show her_

_We're sharing her glow_

_The moon looks down in all her glory_

_How she shines big and bright_

_On this happy scene below her..."_

The spectators were all captivated by what they were witnessing. Though the bride clearly had more talent for dancing than the groom, they both had such energy that talent didn't matter. All except the bride and groom were still as the gypsies' song echoed throughout the square.

"_Oh_

_As long as there's a moon, to wish on_

_Oh_

_As long as there's a song, to croon_

_We'll throw_

_The wedding jug to keep tradition_

_And hope your love will last_

_As long as there's a moon"_

With that lyric, the singing momentarily stopped as Clopin entered the square with a large jug held above his head.

"Gather 'round everyone!" Clopin shouted to the crowd. "This is the moment when we find out how long their marriage will last." He sashayed up to the couple. "Are you two ready?"

Esmeralda and Phoebus each placed their hands on the jug as the gypsies started chanting while waving their hands up and down. They held the jug in the air for a moment or two to build up suspense, and then they let it fall to the ground. It shattered upon impact.

"One..two..three... a thousand pieces!" Clopin counted. "That means your marriage will last a thousand years!"

The gypsies cheered.

"And now," continued Clopin, "we must have the joining of the hands! Would our best man please do us the honors?" He waltzed up to the table where Quasimodo and Minerva were seated and pulled Quasimodo up.

Quasimodo knew what was expected of him. He was supposed to join together the hands of the newlyweds, the same thing he had done in Notre Dame so long ago. After Clopin led him to the center of the square, he took the bride and groom by the wrist, in the same matter as he had done before. And yet...something was different. Last time it had been a struggle, an internal battle with himself. Now it was so easy. A secret smile of triumph spread across his face as he realized what was happening. He was truly able to let go.

After the joining of the hands, all the guests rose from their seats and paired together for the next dance. The pairs ranged everywhere from long-married couples to strangers who hand just met. Yet no matter what amount of previous acquaintance there was, all the couples were swept into the moment as the gypsies sang.

"_Oh_

_As long as there's a moon, above us_

_Oh_

_As long as there's a gypsy tune_

_You know_

_We all want someone to love us_

_And I shall love you_

_As long as there's a moon"_

Quasimodo slowly sank back into his seat, alone again. The hard wood underneath him reminded him of the invisible wall that still stood between him and many of the people. Though they were now kind to him, they would never want to dance with him.

"You were great up there, Quasi."

Quasimodo jerked his head up to where Minerva was still seated, quite surprised that she hadn't been claimed by a partner.

"Uh...thank you," he responded, still a bit uneasy with her compliments. "Uh...aren't you going to dance?"

"Dearie me, I'm no dancer," scoffed Minerva, throwing her golden blonde hair behind her shoulders. "Aside from that, my age scares away all potential partners."

Quasimodo bit his lip in order to resist the temptation to compare his appearance to her age.

"So, can you dance?" asked Minerva.

"Uh...I don't know. I've never done it."

Minerva seemed shocked. "You've _never_ danced?"

"No," said Quasimodo. "Frollo taught that it was a sin."

"Well," Minerva growled in a disgusted voice, "we've got to do something about that."

Quasimodo stared at her for a moment. Was she really implying what she seemed to be implying? If she was, he would never gain the courage to do what she was expecting to happen next. He glanced over at the dancers. How happy they seemed to be...how enchanting the scene was...before he was even aware of what he was doing, an inviting message was coming from his mouth.

"Minerva..." he said, "s-since you and I seem to be the only ones not dancing, m-maybe we could..." He stopped himself in mid-sentence. What was he doing? He was making a complete fool of himself in front of Minerva. He suddenly wanted to hide far away.

But Minerva gave him one of her wide smiles and took his hand. "I'd love to, Quasi."

From that moment, it seemed as though Quasimodo had been whisked into another world. As he rose from his seat and led Minerva into the square, he could barely feel his feet touch the ground; in fact, he could barely feel anything except the softness of Minerva's hand. He wasn't thinking about his lack of dancing experience, nor was he worried about embarrassing Minerva. The music seemed to be carrying him along to make sure he never got out of step, and carrying the rest of the world along with him. Even the stars seemed to be dancing to the rhythm.

"_They say the moon is like a gypsy_

_She casts a spell and then she's gone_

_We know life is strange_

_Everything could change with the dawn_

_Let the night go on..."_

So...this was dancing. Dancing was magical. Dancing was more than he could have ever imagined. He was vaguely aware of the music and movement, but his main attention was on Minerva's eyes glowing in the moonlight.

"_Oh_

_As long as there's a moon, to guide us_

_Oh_

_Don't let the morning come too soon_

_You know_

_We all want someone beside us_

_None of us is truly solitaire _

_Every moon is new when someone cares_

_I will care for you_

_As long as there's a moon"_

As the music faded away, Quasimodo and Minerva gazed fiercely into each other's eyes. Where the bride and groom were carried no importance to them - they were each completely engulfed in the moment. The day Quasimodo had thought would be a day of sorrow for him turned out to be a day of joy. Absolute, pure joy. Esmeralda's marriage had led to him discovering his own strength and ability to rise above hardships. And more importantly, far more importantly, it had led to his friendship with Minerva.


	12. Chapter 12

AN: Sorry it took me so long to get this up. Well, the story's getting better, at least I think so.

"Second Chances"

By EsmeAmelia

Chapter 12

Ten weeks passed. Esmeralda and Phoebus left for their honeymoon: a honeymoon that was not originally supposed to happen, but Minerva's generous offer to keep Phoebus's boardinghouse room while they were gone and her donations to pay for the trip made it possible. The couple suspected that she was really doing it so she could spend more time with Quasimodo, but they would not say so out loud.

If they could see what was happening while they were gone, their suspicions would have been confirmed. Practically all of Minerva's time was spent with Quasimodo. The bond between them that had budded before the wedding was now erupting in bloom.

"QuasiMOdo," Minerva said one morning, in a voice that was unusually perky even for her.

"What?" asked Quasimodo.

"Take a look at this," Minerva said as she reached into her pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, and placed it on the table.

Quasimodo's eyes widened as he looked at the paper. It was a deed.

"I've bought the lovebirds a house," Minerva announced.

The bell-ringer stared at the deed with amazed eyes. "How...how did you afford this?"

"Dressmaking isn't exactly a destitute profession," said Minerva.

Quasimodo ran his finger down the edges of the paper, stopping abruptly when felt his finger brushing against wood - the wood of his unfinished figure. He discreetly pushed the piece of wood that wanted to be a figure behind a building, hoping Minerva wouldn't notice his action and ask who that figure was going to be.

"Have you ever thought of moving out of here, Quasi?" Minerva said.

Quasimodo looked back up at her. "What?"

"Have your ever thought about leaving this tower?" Minerva repeated. "I mean, you're not a prisoner here anymore. Why do you want to stay in the place where Frollo kept you?"

Quasimodo wrung his hands together. "Well...it's hard to explain."

"Try," urged Minerva.

Quasimodo glanced down at the figure of himself, settled in the miniature belltower. "Esmeralda invited me to come live with the gypsies once. At first I was exhilarated at the idea of living somewhere else, a place Frollo had forbidden. So I tried it, but...it didn't work out."

"What do you mean?" asked Minerva.

Quasimodo fiddled with the figure. "There were too many people. I thought living among a large crowd would be great after so many years of living alone, but the opposite turned out to be true."

"How so?"

"I could never find time for myself," Quasimdo explained. "With people always around me, I felt...confined, more confined than here. I couldn't go anywhere to sort out my thoughts in silence. Nowhere to think...nowhere to create. I was too accustomed to having plenty of time for myself, so I moved back here."

He expected Minerva to press the idea further, to ask more questions, but instead she gave one of those face-bending smiles. "I understand, Quasi," she said. "I imagine the gypsy community would be very overwhelming if one wasn't used to it."

Quasimodo found himself on edge for a few moments, waiting for Minerva to accuse him of still being loyal to Frollo as Esmeralda had, but nothing came, only the continuing smile, the sign that she truly did understand why he had returned to the belltower.

"Well anyway," said Quasimodo, "would you like to go for a walk? Maybe you can show me that house."

"Of course, Quasi," said Minerva.

. . . . . .

In the dark corners of the Palace of Justice, the judge sat hunched over his desk, a nearly-empty wine bottle near one hand, a stack of papers piled underneath the other. His eyes were wrinkled from long hours of studying his brother's records: his red-streaked eyeballs now slowly moving across a rather intriguing case of two disappearances: two people who vanished at the same time, one later found, the other never recovered.

"Minister Frollo, sir."

Jehan wearily looked up, his drunk eyes blinking a few times before he recognized the figure standing next to him as his Captain of the Guard.

"Sir?" he said again. "Are you all right?"

"What do you want?" Jehan slurred.

"Sir," the captain said, "I have something that might interest you."

"What would interest me is proof," the minister said in a growling voice.

The captain swallowed. "Sir, you know as well as I that proof is impossible. The only ones on the roof at the time of your brother's death were the bell-ringer, the gypsy girl, and your brother."

Jehan cursed. If only he could find a reason to arrest them without proof. If only he had the courage that his brother had...the courage that had led to rebellion against him. No...unless he wanted to meet his brother's fate, he couldn't risk arresting them without evidence against them. They were too well-liked by the people.

"Sir?" the captain said again. "Do you want to hear what I have to say?"

Jehan gripped his head to steady his nausea. "Go ahead."

"Well, as you are no doubt aware, the gypsy woman has married the previous Captain of the Guard..."

"Yes, yes," Jehan said in a frustrated voice.

"And the two of them are currently on honeymoon..."

"Yes, get on with it."

"Well sir," the Captain said with a gulp, "I have discovered the identity of the woman who is occupying the former Captain's room in the boardinghouse..."

. . . . . . .

As the sun was setting, Minerva returned to the boardinghouse in good spirits. Her walk was halfway between a walk and a skip, for the thoughts of Quasimodo seemed to push her body into little jumps. She couldn't even tell exactly _what_ it was that he had done today to put her in such a good mood: any attempt to do so would only point to the bell-ringer.

Her mood abruptly shifted, however, when she reached Phoebus's room. A pair of soldiers stood in front of the door, looking like they were waiting for her.

"May I help you?" Minerva asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

The taller guard sneered. "Are you Minerva de Chateaupers'?" he said in a rough voice.

An warning sounded in Minerva's head. _Stay calm,_ she thought. After all, this might simply be an interrogation about why she had been living in the room belonging to Phoebus - if that were the case, she would simply need to explain the situation and be let off.

"Yes, I am," she said in a soft voice.

The shorter soldier slapped his large hand onto her arm. "Then you can help us by coming quietly."

Minerva slid her fingers under his bulky hand and attempted to push it off of her arm. "I'll have you know that the normal resident of this room is my brother and I am staying here with his permission. If you don't believe me, you can ask him when he returns from his honeymoon."

The other soldier slapped his hand onto her other arm. "You really think that's the reason we're here?" he scoffed, drops of spittle leaking out of his mouth and onto her skin. He and his companion began laughing loudly, as if she was a private joke among them.

Minerva gave as hard a swallow as her throat could handle. _Stay calm,_ she reminded herself. "Well I can't imagine any other reason why you would be here, unless it is usually acceptable for soldiers to just grab random women from boardinghouses."

"You're not just a random woman," the taller soldier said, running his gloved fingers through her hair.

"If you're looking for pleasure, you won't get it from me!" Minerva spat.

"Oh, we've got enough pleasure simply by finding the young lady who disappeared ten years ago," the shorter soldier crooned. "After her little deeds."

_Stay calm, stay calm, stay clam..._those words were being muted by a cold rush through her veins, soon replaced by another word of advice that was making far more sense.

_Run!_

Old reflexes were stimulated, causing her feet to slam her shoes' sharp heals into the soldiers' boots, which relaxed their grip on her for the few seconds that she needed in order to break into a sprint faster than she had experienced for a long time.

"Come back here!" the soldiers shouted after her.

Minerva gave no head to their call. All she could comprehend at the moment was the screaming voice in her head.

_Run!_

. . . . . . .

Notre Dame's hall had never looked more beautiful to Minerva's eyes than when she rushed through the door into the safe haven. Her breath came out in quick pants as she gripped her chest, feeling her heart's rapid beating. It would only be a matter of minutes before the soldiers got here, and whether or not they would heed the laws of sanctuary was uncertain.

She scurried down the hall, thinking feebly that she might be able to hide away and make the soldiers think they had lost her, but the sound of the door flying open behind her quickly eliminated that hope.

She whirled her body around to face the soldiers advancing on her. "Sanctuary!" she quickly called. "I claim sanctuary."

The soldiers continued to walk towards her, looking like they were about to burst out laughing again. "Oh, do you?" the taller soldier said, clutching a dagger in his hand.

_Stay calm...stay calm...they can't do anything to you here. _Minerva forced herself to keep her voice steady and forceful as she inched backwards. "You know perfectly well that violating the sacred law of sanctuary is what brought down the previous Minister of Justice and ended the lives of many of you soldiers."

"Only because he didn't do something to that gypsy girl at the very beginning," said the shorter soldier. "He didn't drag her out of the cathedral."

Now it was Minerva's turn to have a brief look of mirth on her face. "I outran you in the street - I can outrun you here," she said loudly, hoping someone from the church would hear her. "And once the churchmen see you, you'll be forced to leave."

"Oh really?" the tall soldier said with a wicked sneer. "Well what if you...can't walk?"

Minerva's backwards footsteps scurried with the frantic pace of a rabbit running from a predator, finding within a few seconds that her back was now pasted against a wall with the shorter soldier grabbing her while the taller soldier advanced on her, dagger in hand, its fine point heading towards her leg.

Her dodging reaction wasn't quick enough - the dagger found its mark, plunging itself deep into her leg. For a split-second, she felt nothing, not physically in her leg nor inside her head. Daze overtook her, then once it had its second of glory, it left her. She felt the cold metal digging underneath her skin, her warm blood running down her leg, the pain...the awful pain taking over her senses.

Gravity pulled her down and the dizzying pain held her there, putting her at the mercy of the soldiers. Her blurry mind was dimly aware of them grabbing her by the shoulders...taking her...they were going to forcibly remove her from the sanctuary. That thought gave her enough consciousness to use the last weapon she still had.

She screamed.

A long, loud, blood-curdling scream exited her mouth. One of the soldiers pressed his hand between her lips, but too late - the scream had been heard.

"LET GO OF HER THIS INSTANT!" a booming voice shouted.

The oppressors and the victim all looked up to see the Archdeacon stomping towards them, his eyebrows down, his face wearing a furious expression.

"Y-Your Eminence," the tall soldier stuttered. "This is a criminal, and we are..."

"You know this is the House of God!" the Archdeacon bellowed, grabbing both of the soldiers by the arm. "All who seek out sanctuary here are granted it." He pulled the soldiers away from Minerva with mighty force. "Now leave here this instant."

"Yes, Your Eminence," the short soldier said through his teeth while the tall soldier sent an icy glare down at Minerva.

"This isn't over," he hissed.

After the soldiers left, the Archdeacon knelt down the Minerva's level. "My child, are you all right?" he said in a kindly voice.

"N-n-n-no..." Minerva struggled to say through gasping breaths.

The Archdeacon gazed sadly at the gash in Minerva's leg and the puddle of blood that was forming beneath it. "I...I wish I knew how to treat this."

Minerva breathed frantically and swallowed several times before she was able to find her voice.

"Th-th-the...the bell-ringer can..." she whispered.

"What?" asked the Archdeacon.

Minerva's tingling hand grasped the Archdeacon's robe in desperation as she gasped out her words. "P-p-please...get...Quasimodo..."


	13. Chapter 13

AN: SORRY I took so long posting another chapter. I sort of forgot I was posting my old chapters of this story. Anyway, still in older chapters.

"Second Chances"

By EsmeAmelia

Chapter 13

Quasimodo raced down the steps in a frenzy, remembering nothing of what the Archdeacon had told him except for two words: "Minerva's hurt," which had been all he needed

to trigger his legs to move as fast as they were capable. His body often swayed forward in danger of toppling over, but his quick reflexes would fight with gravity and pull him back up.

Upon reaching the spot where Minerva was slumped against the wall, Quasimodo felt his breath taken away from him for a moment. Her peach face had turned a sickly shade of white. Her royal blue eyes were streaked with red, bulged open, staring ahead without reacting to his presence. A trail of redness extended from a horrid bloodstain in her favorite magenta skirt. She was breathing heavily, as if she were drowning an struggling for air.

"Minerva?" Quasimodo choked. "What happened?"

"She wanted you," said the Archdeacon. "She says you know how to treat her wound." He gave Quasimodo a concerned look. "Is this true?"

Quasimodo's mouth hung open as he stared at Minerva, having to remind himself to give a stiff nod at the Archdeacon's question. "Es...Esmeralda t-t-taught me how to t-t-treat wounds l-like this..." he stammered, not adding the fact that he had never actually treated a wound before.

"Excellent," said the Archdeacon. "The Lord smiles down on you, Quasimodo. Is there any way I can help?"

Quasimodo probably would have loved for the Archdeacon to stay and offer him emotional support, yet his head was moving from side to side without his brain giving it permission, signaling the Archdeacon to leave him alone with the bleeding Minerva.

"Qu-Qu-Qu-Quasi..." the injured one whispered, her mouth feebly trying to smile at him.

Quasimodo kneeled down by her side. "Minerva...what happened to you?" he whispered back, struggling not to shiver.

Minerva's loud breath came out in long heaves, interrupting her words. "Soldiers...remember me...they know...they know..."

"They know what?"

Minerva's heavy gasps seemed to overtake her voice, preventing her from answering. Her eyes once more seemed to be looking at him without seeing him, blinking irregularly, bulged to their limit, as though she was a breathing corpse that had forgotten it was dead.

"Oh Minerva..." Quasimodo whispered in his softest voice. He bent down over her frail body and gathered her in his arms. He bit his lip as he felt her skirt, which was horribly sticky from her blood. Her body shivered in his arms as violently as a fish on the land gasping out for air, causing Quasimodo's grip to tighten in grim determination to not let her fall as he began carrying her up the stairs to the bell tower.

The ascension was long and silent. Even with Minerva in his arms, Quasimodo probably could have moved faster than he was, but questions in his mind were slowing him down. Minerva...once so strong, so full of life...now a helpless limp doll in his arms for an unknown reason. Every so often her legs would suddenly straighten out like she was kicking something, as if she had no control over their movement. Her eyes were open, but she still appeared to be deep within her mind, inaccessible to the outside world.

Once in the bell tower, Quasimodo hastily set Minerva down on his bed, gasping slightly when he saw that the red stain on her skirt seemed to be growing larger.

"Minerva..." he said as gently as he could muster, "...can you please tell me what happened?"

"They know!" Minerva suddenly shouted. "They know who I am!"

"Who?" Quasimodo asked in complete bewilderment.

Minerva's head sank into the pillow and went back to complete silence and open-eyed apparent unawareness.

As Quasimodo reluctantly left her side to fetch the items he'd need to treat her wound, he felt as if he were in a trance, being controlled by an outside force. His chest felt tight, as if something was preventing him from breathing. His mind whirled as if he too had been stabbed.

He returned to find Minerva staring blankly at the ceiling, her mouth moving ever-so-slightly, emitting a barely audible voice that almost seemed to not be her own, like she was under a spell. After a moment of straining his ears, Quasimodo recognized the soft song as the same one he had heard her sing on the bridge that one night. Once again, the meaning of the German words eluded him, but not the melancholy tone of the voice.

"Minerva," he whispered when he reached the bed, abruptly stilling her voice, "I need you to be calm. This will hurt, but it will help you to heal." He wasn't sure why he felt the need to warn her about the pain. Perhaps some part of him thought it would help to ease her suffering.

He sat on the edge of the bed, swallowing hard at the sight of the drying blood on her skirt, turning a disgusting brownish color. The metallic smell of her blood filled his nostrils, nearly seeming able to be tasted by his mouth. He held his breath as his fingers grasped the sticky edge of her skirt, slowly peeling it off of her leg. His mouth unexpectedly took in a large, sucking inhale as her flesh was revealed to him. Peeking out from behind the red stripes of her blood were shining areas of peach that seemed to call out to him, encouraging his eyes to stare at them. He found that he had to remind himself to pour the wine on her wound to cleanse it.

Minerva sucked in her breath through her teeth, but gave no further reaction to the sting. Nor did she react to Quasimodo stitching her leg afterward. It seemed to grant Quasimodo more pain to have to stick a needle through that perfect skin than it did for Minerva to actually experience the needle.

As he worked, the bell-ringer felt unusual, fleeting urges constantly nagging at his hands. Embarrassing urges. Urges to grasp the edge of her skirt and pull it further up, revealing her forbidden areas. His breath came out in long heaves as he gradually realized what was happening. The stiffness was returning...the same stiffness he had once felt around Esmeralda.

And not just the stiffness. Quasimodo's every blink brought him visions of their visits, their German lessons, their lively conversations, their dancing, nearly every moment they had spent together. His heaving breath gradually broke into small gasps as he pulled the thread, a single word overtaking his mind. _Minerva._ Merely her name was giving him an unexplainable pleasure as he repeated it in his head. _Minerva, Minerva, Minerva._ What was it about her name that was exciting him so suddenly?

Finally he dared to once more look at her face, finding her lips pursed and her eyes scrunched tightly shut, trapped in a sound sleep brought on by pure exhaustion. She appeared so...helpless - something of which Quasimodo had previously thought her incapable. She breathed uneasily, her lips occasionally shaking, as if even when she was this deep into unconsciousness, she could still feel the horrible pain. As he cut the thread, the bell-ringer could only stare at her, absorbing her every detail. Even the stray wisps of hair that were made visible by the candlelight caught his interest. Even her creased eyelids fascinated him. Even her heavily chapped lips appeared beautiful to him.

_Beautiful?_

Minerva was beautiful?

He had never thought of her that way before.

Why was he thinking that now?

_What_ was making him think that now?

He couldn't place the exact thing or the exact reason, and yet as he looked at her now, he wondered what had blinded him in these past few months. Her beauty was _obvious_ now. How could he have ever failed to notice it?

He tried to remember why he had thought her so plain when he first met her. Was he really so smitten with Esmeralda that he was deprived of the ability to notice another woman's beauty? Yet now...the sight of Minerva was tightening his thighs with an intensity he had never felt before. Everything he had previously felt for Esmeralda had returned for Minerva - but this was even stronger. How so? He couldn't tell, but he _knew_ it was.

As he fixed his eyes once again on her gorgeous chapped lips, waves of both exhilaration and shame passed through him, each one equal in strength. This was, after all, the sister of the very man who had taken away the first woman he had loved - when he thought of that, it was slightly embarrassing to be infatuated by her. It was silly. Yet when he looked at her face glowing in the candlelight, any awkwardness connected with that notion disappeared.

Her lips were deathly still, and yet they seemed to be silently calling to him, entrapping his own lips in a spell, pushing them closer to hers. He vaguely tried to resist, his logical side attempting to tell him that she was sick, that she was asleep, that she didn't love him, but its power waned with her spell.

His lips touched hers, ceasing all logic in his mind. All thought immediately went to the intimacy passing between him and Minerva. The taste of her rough lips seemed to send a bolt of lightning through his body, making him want nothing except to remain in this moment.

Yet the yearning in his soul persisted. The unresponsiveness on Minerva's part further reminded him that this was incomplete, a mere attempt to satisfy his urges. The participation, the passion, the _love_ from Minerva was missing. It was a kiss spent alone.

He raised his head back up, his lips feeling the coldness of being separate from Minerva's. As he looked at her tortured face, a wave of shame passed over him. He had just taken advantage of her passive situation for his own benefit. Suddenly he felt that he couldn't stand to see her anymore. He closed his eyes, but Minerva's face refused to wane in his head.

He breathed heavily and quickly, as if he had just been drowning in the water and was now hungry for air. Part of him wanted to kiss her again, but he commanded himself to resist. It took every bit of willpower he had to turn away from her and begin moving away from the bed. His body moved like it was in a trance, slowly, stiffly, one step at a time as his mind could only process one thought.

He was in love with Minerva.


	14. Chapter 14

AN: Happy Festival of Fools Day! Here's another (older) chapter to celebrate! Thanks to all the readers!

"Second Chances"

By EsmeAmelia

Chapter 14

The next morning, Quasimodo awoke to the feeling of hard pressure against his body. He vaguely wondered when his bed had become so uncomfortable before a chill in the air informed him that he wasn't in his bed. He wasn't even in anything that resembled a bed. As his consciousness gradually returned, sore bones reminded him that he was lying on the wooden floor, which in turn reminded him of what happened last night.

He fumbled to his feet, both anxious and hesitant to find out how Minerva was. She could still be asleep, and if that were the case he really should not disturb her, he thought. Or perhaps she was awake, but not yet ready to talk, in which case he should leave her alone instead of pressuring her to speak to him.

Or perhaps she was dead.

That thought made the bell-ringer more nauseous than he had ever thought himself capable. Something began rising up his throat, even though he had eaten nothing the night before. He slapped his hand over his mouth, lest something would come out of it. Several seconds passed of Quasimodo willing whatever it was to stay inside him.

After he was certain that he was all right, Quasimodo looked over at the bed in which Minerva still lay, unsure if he possessed the courage to approach her. Several minutes seemed to pass with him thinking nothing before his ears caught a soft, feminine moan. The sound, though rough and raspy, was beautiful to the man's ears, telling him that the woman he loved still retained life for now.

He ran over to the bed, finding Minerva still stretched out as she had been the night before, her eyes open and once more staring at the ceiling, but this time, they conveyed awareness of her surroundings - with the sound of Quasimodo's footsteps approaching, her pupils moved to the side, facing the man who loved her. The edges of her mouth seemed to be trying to pull her lips into a smile, but some invisible barrier was preventing them from doing so. Her breath was quick, but without desperate struggle for air.

"Quasi..." she murmured.

"Minerva, I'm here," Quasimodo said quickly, unintentionally grabbing her hand.

The sound of his voice apparently broke the barriers that prevented Minerva from smiling. Her mouth curved upward for a tiny second before relaxing once again. "Quasi..." she repeated, like that was the only word she was capable of saying.

Part of Quasimodo simply wanted to dive on top of her body, but the rest of him quickly restrained that part. His focus went to the sensation in his hand - her soft fingers weaving between his.

"Quasi..." Minerva whispered again.

"Yes...yes..." Quasimodo gasped. "You'll be all right, Minerva. I'm taking care of you."

Her smile faded, as if she were only now remembering what had occurred the night before. Her breath climbed in intensity until she seemed to be gasping for air. Tiny squeaks of voice escaped her open mouth.

"Minerva?" Quasimodo whispered.

Tears were forming at the edges of Minerva's eyes, quietly streaming towards her ears, which were still adorned with silver earrings. Her chapped lips scrunched, as if struggling to conceal the sobs that were trying to escape.

Quasimodo squeezed her hand until it felt like her bones were about to break. "Minerva...what happened yesterday? Why were they after you?"

The woman sniffed loudly. "I...I...Quasi...you don't..."

"I don't what?" Quasimodo said with a sudden amount of volume in his voice.

She sniffed again, tears continuing to flow. "I'm...I'm not who you think I am..."

"You're not really Phoebus's sister?"

Minerva sighed heavily. "No, I am his sister...but if he knew...he'd wish I weren't..."

The bellringer put his large hand on her forehead, which was sticky from her sweat. "Don't talk like that," he whispered.

"You don't know me..." she said in a horrified whisper. "No one does..."

"Then _tell_ me," Quasimodo said loudly.

A large sob burst out of Minerva's mouth, her wet face now reflecting the sunlight. "I can't...I can't..." Her eyes wrinkled shut, as if she just now became aware of the physical pain engulfing her. A long hiss of sucked in breath flew between her lips.

Quasimodo stroked her forehead as if attempting to wipe away the sweat. "You can, Minerva...you can..." His thumb dipped down to brush away the tears that seemed to be endlessly streaming out of her eyes. "You can...you can...I'm here, Minerva...I'm here for you..."

Quite unexpectedly, Minerva's eyes scrunched shut, wrinkling her lids. Her teeth ground beneath her chapped lips, brining a horrible rough sound to Quasimodo's ears. The grinding grew louder, as if she were determined to break her teeth apart. Quasimodo felt his ears wanting to close, a silent voice screaming _make it stop, make it stop, make it stop._

"It was ten years ago..." a voice whispered in a tone nearly indistinguishable from silence - perhaps the only reason Quasimodo noticed it was that it ceased the grinding.

"What was?" he asked softly.

Minerva once more winced in pain. "The beginning of it all..."

Quasimodo's teeth sank into his lips until he tasted blood.

Minerva closed her eyes, as if telling darkness her story was easier than telling Quasimodo. "You and Phoebus and everyone else think that I ran away ten years ago to escape a forced marriage. That...that's only a tiny part of it..."

Quasimodo held his breath, fearful that any sign of his existence would prevent her from telling the story.

"Ten years ago..." Minerva began, her eyes remaining closed, "...Mother wanted me to get married. I was eighteen - rapidly aging in her eyes. So she started sending me suitors...and I refused every one. She thought I was being my stubborn self, but what she didn't know was that...I had fallen in love with someone else."

Quasimodo suddenly felt like he was about to collapse on the hard floor, the air being sucked out of him as if he had been punched in the stomach.

"I supposed I have more in common with my twin than I thought," Minerva continued, oblivious to the bell-ringer's torment. "Like him, I loved...a gypsy."

Quasimodo closed his eyes, the image of a handsome gypsy man invading his head.

"Frederich..." Minerva said with an almost dreamy tone. "He was a street musician who played for his sister Brigetta while she danced. I'd see him every day when I went into the streets to buy things." Her lips struggled into a near-smile. "He was so handsome..."

_Handsome._ The word Quasimodo hated over all others. His fingers ached to clench into fists - he grasped the edge of the mattress in order to prevent himself from doing so.

"I don't know what possessed me to start talking to him...but once I did...everything happened so fast." Minerva gave a long sigh. "But my mother...I knew I couldn't tell her - you know what she did to Phoebus and all. And then...and then..."

Her breath grew so fast that Quasimodo wondered if there was something more wrong with her. It seemed to take at least a minute for her to speak again.

"Mother...she forced me...forced me to marry a nobleman. I-I don't know if she suspected anything or if she was just growing impatient..."

Quasimodo felt like he was about to faint.

"I...I married...but I didn't stop seeing Frederich. He started taking me to the Court of Miracles...yes, he trusted me that much. But there...there...w-we gave up on our future...we traded our future for a few nights of pleasure..."

Her every word seemed to pierce Quasimodo's soul with a knife sharper than the one that stabbed her. _Married...in love...pleasure..._

"I...I became pregnant..." Minerva continued, her voice breaking up with tiny sobs, "...a-and I had never slept with my husband. I couldn't stay, not with the child I was going to bear - my husband would know it wasn't his..."

A child. Minerva was the mother of someone else's child. Minerva was not a virgin. Quasimodo vaguely pinched his leg, some tiny part of him hoping this was a dream. This _couldn't_ be happening again.

"So we...we ran away together. We planned to go with Brigetta to Frederich's birthplace...Germany." Minerva remained unaware of the bell-ringer's pain even though he was now shaking. "But then...then my husband found out about us, and he came after us..."

Her voice faded away once again, her head sinking into the pillow. For a second Quasimodo thought she had fainted, but then her crusty eyelids slowly separated. "We killed him..." she said in the vaguest whisper.

Quasimodo's ears numbed as if the bells had sounded too close to them. "Wh-what?"

Minerva's red eyes stared up at him. "W-we killed him. We thought it was the only way to preserve our future - but that was what destroyed it. Frollo...came after us."

This was a dream. It had to be. Minerva couldn't be a murderer. _His_ Minerva couldn't be a murderer.

"But...but it didn't end there...my...my Frederich and I...the law..."

"What?" Quasimodo whispered, gripping her wrist so tightly that her hand turned white.

"Frollo...he came after us...and Frederich..." She sniffed loudly, tears racing out of her eyes. "Frederich...couldn't bear the possibility of me hanging...he...h-he...turned himself over to Frollo...telling me and Brigetta to rush to Germany where we would be safe." Her voice shook violently - Quasimodo could barely make out what she was saying. "F-F-Frollo hanged him...he hanged my Frederich..."

Quasimodo swallowed several times in rapid succession, his hands shaking uncontrollably. His nostrils took in several tiny inhales, his mind unable to grasp on to any thought for more than a second.

"Brigetta and I left..." she mumbled. "We honored his last wish..."

"W-w-what...what happened to your baby?"

Minerva sniffed again. "I-I...I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. H-he was so wonderful - my little Frederich - but God cursed me once again. My baby took ill and died when he was less than a month old."

She closed her eyes, tears streaming down her pale face towards her ears. Without any conscious decision from his mind, Quasimodo felt his body inching away from her. Though he knew he should be weeping for the woman he loved, the exhaustion of his soul prevented him from weeping, prevented him from speaking, prevented him from doing anything except moving further and further away.


	15. Chapter 15

AN: Sorry it took me so long to get this up. Thanks as always to the reviewers! I'm still in the older chapters here, only a few of them left.

"Second Chances"

By EsmeAmelia

Chapter 15

"Home, Esmeralda," Phoebus whispered into his wife's ear as they passed through the gates of Paris. "Finally home." He planted a small kiss on her earlobe.

Esmeralda gently brushed her husband's hand away. "We don't really have a home yet."

"That can be fixed," Phoebus reminded her. "Now getting enough money for it, that may be a problem."

Esmeralda smiled at him, trying not to let the subject of money dampen either of their spirits. "Well until then, you're welcome to live among the gypsies, you know that."

Phoebus smiled back at her. "I know."

They walked a bit further, giving little notice to their hometown, instead distracted by each other. In fact, the only thing capable of distracting them was their friend's voice calling out their names.

"Quasimodo!" they both exclaimed at once.

Quasimodo ran up to the couple, nearly knocking over a few passerby. The instant he reached the couple, he threw his large arms around both of them, squeezing them in an embrace so tight that he might have broken their ribs if he were less careful.

"So how was your honeymoon?" Quasimodo asked after he finally let them go.

"Wonderful," they both said in unison, each one feeling slightly silly at saying the same thing as their spouse, and thus each one started laughing a bit.

Quasimodo smiled at them. "It certainly sounds like you had a good time."

"We did," said Esmeralda, ruffling the bell-ringer's hair. "You should travel sometime, Quasi."

"So where's Minerva?" Phoebus asked. "Now that I'm married, I think it might be time to move out of that tiny room."

A dark shadow seemed to fall across Quasimodo's face. He gazed at the ground, seeming to be making a point to not look either of them in the eye. "I-I . . . I don't know how to explain it."

"What do you mean?" asked Esmeralda, worry filling her eyes.

The bell-ringer swallowed. "Well . . . maybe I should take you to see her."

. . . . . .

Everyone was quiet as Quasimodo led the newlyweds up to the tower. The bell-ringer was thankful for how narrow the stairwell was – that meant he didn't have to look his friends in the eyes. He still didn't have the slightest idea how to tell them about what had happened to Minerva. Should he prepare them for what they would see, or would the story be better coming from Minerva herself?

He didn't have time to make a decision – they reached the top all too quickly. His hands instinctively pressed against the walls, creating a barrier that blocked the couple from going any further.

"S-s-something happened to Minerva while you were gone," he said in a low whisper. "S-s-something bad . . ." Without waiting for their answer, he sprinted toward the bed where Minerva still lay.

"Oh God . . ." Phoebus muttered, rushing up to his sister's side. "Minerva, what happened? Can you hear me?"

Minerva's reddened eyes slightly opened. "Phoebus . . .?"

"Yes Minerva," Phoebus whispered, placing his hand on her sweaty forehead. "I'm here."

"Phoebus . . ." Minerva repeated in a faint voice, ". . . why are you here?"

Phoebus sounded like he was struggling to keep his breath steady. "We're back, we've returned from our honeymoon. What happened to you?"

Minerva breathed heavily, nearly gasping for air. "Soldiers . . ."

"What?" Esmeralda exclaimed.

"Why would soldiers be after you?" Phoebus said through a gasp.

Quasimodo gulped. "It's a long story . . ." His eyes shifted over to the barely-conscious Minerva. "A-am I allowed to tell them?"

He wasn't sure if the wounded woman quite understood his question, but she struggled to give a small nod. Still he hesitated, knowing that if she were completely conscious she might not give the same answer.

"Well?" Esmeralda said with impatience. "What's all this about?'

Quasimodo sighed, briefly glancing back at Minerva before speaking. "All right . . ." he said, ". . . I'll tell you . . ."

. . . . . .

Neither Esmeralda nor Phoebus spoke while Quasimodo told them Minerva's story. The three of them were now seated at the table, pushed close to each other, the husband and wife scarcely blinking, the bell-ringer feeling more and more exhausted with every word he uttered. Phoebus kept looking down at his knuckles, as if they had special powers that gave him the strength to listen. After Quasimodo finished the story, no one said anything for what seemed to be a long time.

"Minerva . . ." Phoebus finally whispered, blinking rapidly, ". . . she's a murderer . . ."

"Don't say that," Quasimodo reflexively hissed. "Just . . . don't . . ."

Esmeralda was running her hand over the table, refusing to look up. "Frederich . . ." she mumbled. ". . . I think I might have known him."

"What?" Quasimodo and Phoebus reacted together.

Esmeralda kept looking down. "I didn't know him _well_ . . . I just saw him around. I remember him and his sister performing their act. And then . . . then I remember him bringing a strange woman to the Court. I never knew her name, but I _saw_ her." She pounded the table with her fist. "I _knew_ Minerva looked familiar when she came here, but I didn't fully recognize her until now." She sighed loudly. "Then soon after that he was hanged. I never knew why – I just assumed it was one of Frollo's gypsy executions based on false charges. I never thought . . ." She trailed off.

"Why didn't you ever tell us that you knew her before?" Phoebus asked with a hint of anger in his voice.

"I didn't think much of it," said Esmeralda. "Like I said, she looked familiar, but I didn't know where I'd seen her before."

"A-anyway," Quasimodo said between gulps, "her wound will heal . . . I think."

"Well _that's_ good, at least," Phoebus grumbled. "Now what are we going to do after she recovers?"

"She has sanctuary," Quasimodo said, his voice little more than a whisper.

"Well she can't stay here forever," said Esmeralda.

"I know . . . I know . . ." Quasimodo said, raising his hands and curling his fingers to discourage argument.

Phoebus stared at the bell-ringer, his face pale, redness at the edges of his eyes. "You helped Esmeralda get out once . . ." he mumbled. "You can do it again."

Quasimodo knew what he meant. It had been relatively easy to help Esmeralda escape the cathedral – and Minerva wasn't even as closely guarded as Esmeralda had been. Yet when he thought about helping Minerva escape in that same way, a strange hesitance filled him. Once she was out, she was in danger again. Something was screaming inside him, telling him to protect her, to keep her here where he knew she was safe, even though he knew it would be wrong to impose on her freedom.

How strange love was.


	16. Chapter 16

AN: I'm not 100% certain, but this chapter might not have ever been online before - I wrote it a while ago, but I'm not sure if I ever put it on my website. Anyway, thanks for reviewing!

"Second Chances"

By EsmeAmelia

Chapter 16

The weeks crept by, with Quasimodo rarely leaving Minerva's side. Her body grew stronger, but her depression didn't waver. It always seemed to take a massive amount of effort just to get her to speak, and even when she _did _speak, she would only utter a few words at a time. The bell-ringer couldn't even convince her to learn how to walk again. It was as if she had given up on living, determined to forget about any sort of life outside the bell tower.

Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night and heard her singing again, always in German, always beyond his understanding, but he could detect the word _Frederich_ in the lyrics, which always tore at his heart. Then he would feel ashamed to be envious of a dead man, but he couldn't deny that the envy existed. It was almost worse than being envious of Phoebus. At least he _knew_ Phoebus, at least he and Phoebus could be friends. He could never know Frederich, never find out if Frederich would find him hideous, if Frederich would taunt him as so many others did.

Esmeralda and Phoebus moved into the house Minerva had bought for them. Phoebus came to Notre Dame nearly every day to see his sister, but Quasimodo rarely saw Esmeralda, perhaps because the gypsy dancer didn't know how to disclose to Minerva that she knew her and Frederich before. Or maybe she just didn't want to face that her sister-in-law was an adulteress and a murderer.

_Murderer. _

Quasimodo still couldn't pair that word with Minerva. He could accept that she committed adultery against the husband she did not love – especially since she already loved someone else before she married. A great sin, yes, but an understandable one, even though understanding it split his heart. But murder? How could _his _Minerva ever be capable of that?

_His_ Minerva. As if he owned her. As if she were nothing more than _his_ models or _his _tools. Just an object. Quasimodo couldn't believe how shallow his thoughts sometimes got, yet at the same time he couldn't deny them.

Finally Minerva grew strong enough to walk again. Even when she tried not to heal, she couldn't stop her body from fixing itself. As soon as he found out about that, Phoebus once more begged Quasimodo to help her escape the cathedral.

"It will be easy," he said. "Just do what you did with Esmeralda."

"What I did with Esmeralda almost got us both killed," Quasimodo argued. "Do you really want me to risk killing your sister?"

"I don't want her imprisoned here," Phoebus said simply.

"And you can't be patient?" said Quasimodo. "_She's_ certainly been patient enough. In a little while the soldiers will probably forget about her."

Phoebus gave an exasperated sigh. "I might agree with you except for the fact that she's related to me." He stared at the bell-ringer. "You, Esmeralda, and I were all part of Frollo's death – we can't deny it. Now his brother is looking for any excuse he can use to arrest us. Minerva's connection to us might be the very excuse he needs."

"All the more reason to keep Minerva here," Quasimodo said firmly. "If she goes out there, she'll be caught."

The former captain ground his teeth in frustration. "Quasi, do you _know_ who you sound like?"

"No, who do I sound like?"

"You sound like Frollo."

Quasimodo suddenly found himself struggling to breathe. His eyes widened to their physical limit as he stared blankly at Phoebus. "H-h-how . . . how . . . how could you say that?"

"It's _true_," Phoebus insisted. "You want to keep Minerva here without ever letting her leave, just like what Frollo did to you. He claimed he wanted to protect you from the outside world as well."

The bell-ringer couldn't move, couldn't think, as if the world had decided that time was an unnecessary luxury for him but still needed to move for everyone else.

"Please," Phoebus continued. "Esmeralda and I will be there to meet you at the bottom. Then we'll take her to our house and the gypsies can take her back to Germany. She'll be safe there."

Back to Germany. Back to where Quasimodo might never see her again. The bell-ringer suddenly felt ill, as if Minerva returning to Germany would erase all meaning from his life. He knew it was selfish to think like that, yet he couldn't deny what he was feeling. Suddenly and completely unexpectedly, his world had become centered on Minerva.

Now Phoebus was looking Quasimodo directly in the eye, a desperate, pleading look on his face. "Please," he repeated. "Think about her."

About _her._ Not about _him._

"All right," he said in a small voice. "I'll do it."

. . . .

Tonight seemed amazingly similar to the night Quasimodo helped Esmeralda escape – the stars were clustered in the sky without any clouds to be seen. There was also a chill in the air despite the fact that it was summer. Yes, it was very much like that night . . . the night that had led to the burning of Paris. Quasimodo gulped at the thought of all the innocent people who suffered because of him. Why couldn't he have been more patient? Why didn't he wait until Frollo's anger had subsided to help Esmeralda escape? He couldn't remember.

Minerva was standing at the balcony, leaning over the rail, reminding Quasimodo of the night he found her leaning on the bridge, looking so solemn, so sad, so unlike herself. Back then, he didn't understand why she was like that.

He wished he _still_ didn't understand why.

He cleared his throat as he approached her. "Minerva?" he whispered. "We're ready to go."

"What if I don't want to do this?" Minerva said in a shuddering voice, not looking at him.

"What do you mean?"

Minerva swallowed as if something were stuck in her throat. "I'm guilty, aren't I? I have no business out there. A guilty person should either be here or in the dungeon." She turned around, showing Quasimodo her tear-stained face. "My sister-in-law was innocent. I'm not."

Quasimodo reached over and gently patted her shoulder. "Minerva . . . do it for Phoebus, then. He wants you to be free and safe. I know you care about him enough to respect his wishes." _And do you respect my wishes as well?_ he wanted to ask, but those words couldn't find their way out.

Minerva sighed, glancing downward. "Yes . . . I do, but . . ."

"Do it for _Frederich _too." Mentioning her former lover's name made Quasimodo feel dizzy, but he pressed onward. "He sacrificed himself for you – do you want him to have died for nothing?"

Minerva inhaled deeply, trying to hold in her tears. "All right, let's go."

Carrying someone down the walls of Notre Dame was easier the second time. It certainly helped that Minerva didn't have an animal in her own arms like Esmeralda had. She was unusually quiet during the entire descent, not even gasping during the moments when it seemed like they might fall, almost as if she didn't care whether she lived or died.

When they reached the ground, Phoebus and Esmeralda were there as they said they would be . . . but so were a groups of soldiers emerging from the darkness behind the couple.

"Look out!" Quasimodo shouted, but his warning came too late. The soldiers surrounded the group on all sides. Esmeralda and Phoebus were immediately kicking, punching, and biting, but the soldiers didn't make any moves towards them; they merely shoved the couple aside. Instead, they approached Minerva, grabbing her by the wrists.

"You're under arrest," said the tallest soldier, chaining her wrists.

"So, so predictable," said another soldier. "She couldn't stand living in the church, could she?"

"You can't do this," Phoebus growled.

The tall soldier smirked. "Actually we _can._ This little lady committed a little crime ten years ago that she hasn't yet paid for. Now that's not fair, is it?" He leaned in until his spittle-covered lips were nearly touching Phoebus's face. "And if I recall correctly, you're not Captain of the Guard anymore, are you? So you have no authority over us, do you?" He pulled on Minerva's chains and signaled to his comrades. "Come on, men. We have what we're looking for."

As the soldiers led Minerva away, she glanced back at Quasimodo, her eyes misted, her face full of regret and despair. Quasimodo suddenly felt all energy drained out of him, all his strength faded away as he sank to his knees, clutching his stomach, unwilling to look at anything other than the cobbled streets.

"Minerva . . ." he whispered.


	17. Chapter 17

AN: Hey looky, a new chapter! Wow, I actually wrote a new chapter! Anyway, thanks to all who reviewed!

"Second Chances"

By Christy

Chapter 17

"I don't understand it," Esmeralda said after the three were back in Notre Dame.

"What's not to understand?" Phoebus said glumly, vaguely fingering one of Quasimodo's figures. "She's a criminal. Whether she's related to me or not, that's what she is."

"Yes, but it doesn't make sense," Esmeralda argued. "Why would the minister suddenly take such an interest in a crime committed ten years ago? And why wouldn't he take _us_ away too?" Her stare shifted from Quasimodo to Phoebus and back again. "_We're_ the ones he really wants, not her."

"Y-yes . . ." Quasimodo stuttered, ". . . b-but he also knows that his brother died when he came after us."

"What are you saying?" asked Phoebus.

Quasimodo gulped. "W-well . . . he may be a drinker, but he's not stupid. The people revere us as heroes – if he were to arrest any of us without an understandable reason, there would be another riot. However . . . the people don't know Minerva."

"So you're suggesting that he thinks he can get to us through her because she's my sister?"

"Maybe," said Quasimodo, his voice beginning to falter as he spoke. "H-he also knows how we took the law into our own hands before. Maybe he's hoping we'll do it again." He gulped again. "And if we do, he'll have a valid reason to arrest us."

Esmeralda and Phoebus were silent for several moments, the weight of Quasimodo's words pressing down on all three of them. Even Djali appeared tense as he lay by Esmeralda's feet.

"So . . . he _wants_ us to try to rescue her," Esmeralda finally said. "She's bait for us."

It took every bit of Quasimodo's willpower to keep himself from shuddering as his own words raced through his mind. How he wished that his suspicions didn't make sense. How he longed to have a chance to bring Minerva back to safety without the minister expecting it.

"But if _that's_ so," said Phoebus, "what will happen to her if we _don't _try to save her?"

"You know the penalty for murder as well as I do," said Esmeralda. "Death. If we don't try to save her, he has no reason to keep her alive."

Quasimodo felt like he was about to vomit. The unwelcome image of Minerva dangling from a hangman's noose pushed itself into his head, refusing to leave, as vivid as if it were already occurring. His body began shaking, his mouth longing to scream out as he had when Esmeralda was about to be burned.

"Quasimodo?" Esmeralda said in a worried voice. "Are you all right?"

He couldn't answer her, couldn't even stand to look at her or Phoebus. Anything he said about what he was thinking of doing would worry them. They would insist he change his mind or insist that they join him, but he wouldn't allow either. He could never, ever put them in more danger.

"Yes . . ." he forced himself to say in a tiny voice that was almost a whisper, ". . . I'm fine." He looked his friends in the eye. "Why don't you go home? We can talk about this some more tomorrow morning."

He didn't hear how they responded – so busy was his mind, already thinking, already planning, already deciding that by the time morning came, there would be no need for discussion because Minerva would already be saved.

. . . .

Even without Claude Frollo, the Palace of Justice was a forbidding place. The stench of executed bodies left to rot filled Quasimodo's nose even before he entered the building. He struggled not to stumble on his uneven legs as she slowly approached the tall, pointed door, where two guards were keeping watch.

"Halt, who goes there?" one guard shouted, raising his long spear.

Quasimodo gulped, concentrating on keeping his voice steady. "I am Quasimodo, bell-ringer of Notre Dame. I have come to see Judge Frollo." It felt odd to be referring to someone else with the name he'd long associated with his old master.

The guards immediately burst into laughter. "You . . ." one of them sputtered, ". . . you actually wish to come in here and see the minister?"

"I have an offer for him," Quasimodo replied, struggling to keep his voice calm.

The guards laughed even harder, echos of the laughter from that Festival of Fools day so long ago, heavy burdens on Quasimodo's ears. He suddenly felt small, helpless, unfit to speak, but the thought of Minerva in danger was enough to make him overcome that.

"The minister will _want_ to see me," he insisted. "I have something he wants. Please, you _have_ to let me in."

"So what are you saying?" asked the first guard, a somewhat threatening manner beginning to overcome his laughter.

Quasimodo took a deep breath. "You both know that the minister wants me and my friends dead. He's wanted that ever since his brother died over a year ago. What do you think he'd say if he found out that I was willing to see him and you turned me away?"

Now there was something like fear in the guards' eyes. "This is a trap, isn't it?" said the second guard.

"No," said Quasimodo, trying to make his voice as sincere as possible.

"And do you expect us to _believe_ that?" said the first guard. "We knew perfectly well what you're capable of." His hand gripped the handle of his sword, as if expecting Quasimodo to spring out and attack them both with his phenomenal strength.

Quasimodo sighed. "My friends are not with me and I am unarmed. If you don't believe me, you may search me for weapons."

The second soldier moved forward to do just that, but the first soldier, grabbed his comrade's shoulder. "Careful," he said. "Remember, a man like him doesn't _need_ weapons." With that, the second soldier seemed to change his mind and backed as far away from Quasimodo as he was able.

Quasimodo sighed again. "If it makes you feel better, you may handcuff me." He stuck out his hands, stretching out his wrists.

The first guard made a move to chain up Quasimodo's hands, but the second guard still held back.

"He broke a ton of chains once," the second guard whispered. "Remember that? His entire body chained up, and he broke them."

"Well then I guess you'll just have to accept my word," said Quasimodo.

The soldiers looked at each other for a long, long moment. Then, without saying another word, they each grabbed one of Quasimodo's arms and led him into the Palace.

Quasimodo gulped. It had been months since he had seen the Minister of Justice, and now he was being led into Jehan Frollo's very quarters. He felt himself beginning to sweat, but unsure of the exact reason why. Was it fear for himself or fear for Minerva? Or perhaps a mixture of both?

The minister was at his desk, a wine bottle resting next to his arm. He was digging his fingers into his forehead, his face scrunched up as if he hadn't slept in days. Quasimodo felt his eyes widen at the sight. Was this pathetic figure really the man who held so much power?

"Minister Frollo," the soldier on Quasimodo's left said, "the bell-ringer of Notre Dame has surrendered to us."

The judge didn't look up. "Why?" he said.

"I don't know," said the guard. "He said he wants to speak with you."

The judge still didn't look up. "This is some sort of trap, isn't it? It has something to do with the woman who was arrested tonight, doesn't it?"

"It's not a trap," Quasimodo spoke up. "But it _does_ have something to do with her."

He finally looked up, showing the bell-ringer his reddened eyes. "What interest do you have in her."

"You know perfectly well that she is my friend's sister." Quasimodo concentrated on keeping his expression cold and intimidating. "You know _that_ is why you arrested her."

Jehan suddenly slammed his fist on the desk. "I arrested her because she is guilty of murder."

"That is your excuse," Quasimodo calmly replied. "By herself, she means nothing to you personally. You only bothered to arrest her because of her connection to me and my friends.

Jehan let out a long growl that sounded like it had to struggle to get up his throat. "Well, are your _friends_ here with you?"

"No," Quasimodo said, his voice still steady, "and you will not have them. But . . ." He took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to run. ". . . if you let Minerva de Chateaupers' go, you will have _me._"

The minister lifted an eyebrow, as if suspecting that he was playing a joke. "And . . . why should I agree to that when I could simply arrest you now and have both of you?"

Quasimodo was prepared for that. "If you try to arrest me without letting her go, I will simply fight all your soldiers off. Then after that, the people will come after you for unjustly arresting the city's hero. You _know_ you don't want to suffer your brother's fate." He concentrated on putting weight on his every word. "But if you let her go, I will come to you _willingly._ You will be safe, your soldiers will be safe, and you will have me. All I require is that you let her go."

Jehan stared at him for a long time, as if trying to figure out whether or not it was some sort of trick. Quasimodo inadvertently held his breath, growing increasingly uncomfortable under the minister's stare. It felt as if Jehan were prying into his very mind, seeking out his private thoughts, searching for his motivations.

Finally a smile began to creep across the minister's face, the sort of smile that reminded Quasimodo of his old master. "All right, bell-ringer," he said. "I'll agree to your deal." He looked up at the guards. "Bring in the young lady we captured tonight. Leave the bell-ringer with me." After the guards left, he looked back at Quasimodo. "Do sit down."

Quasimodo glanced from side to side, more than a little suspicious of the minister asking him to sit down as if he were a guest.

"Sit down," Jehan repeated, a slight harshness in his tone this time.

Quasimodo obeyed, but was still unable to keep his eyes from shifting. There was something _not right_ about this.

"So I set the bitch free, and I have you?" Jehan inquired.

"_Don't_ call her that!" Quasimodo reflexively hissed.

"Ah, I see," said Jehan. "I was wondering why it was you who turned yourself in instead of her brother. I think I'm beginning to see now." He leaned as far forward as he could, as if about to whisper into the bell-ringer's ear. "You have _feelings_ for her, don't you?"

Quasimodo couldn't answer, but even if he could, he wouldn't have had time to, for right at that instant he heard chains clanking. He instantly turned around and flew to his feet, seeing Minerva being dragged through the door by the guards.

"What's this all about?" she was asking in a loud, demanding voice. "What's going on?" Then she saw Quasimodo and her jaw dropped. "Quasi . . . what are you doing here?" Her voice was now softened to a whisper, a fearful tone in it.

Jehan pointed at the woman. "Release her." His pointing finger now turned toward Quasimodo. "And arrest him."

"What?" Minerva shouted.

The soldiers immediately unlocked Minerva's chains without protest. Quasimodo held out his hands in surrender, after which the soldiers shackled his wrists.

"No . . ." Minerva whispered, taken aback beyond comprehension.

Quasimodo twisted his head as best he could to look at her. "You're free, Minerva. Please, take care of yourself . . . and don't come after me."

Minerva couldn't answer, couldn't even watch as Quasimodo was taken to the dungeon where she had just been held. She sank to her knees in disbelief, unable to move even when a soldier kicked at her to get up. Once again, another had taken her place. Once again, someone was going to die to save her life.

Once again, she was alone.


End file.
